


Au Cafe Pequod

by sunflowerseedsandscience



Series: The Pequod Universe [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 13:04:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16096256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerseedsandscience/pseuds/sunflowerseedsandscience
Summary: Obersoldat Fox Mulder’s childhood has not instilled him with a sense of faith in humanity, and what little he has left has been destroyed by his years in Occupied France. An unwilling conscript in the German army, he is finally jerked out of months of helpless apathy when he comes to the aid of Dana Scully, the half-French, half-American proprietress of a tiny village cafe. The two strike up an unlikely friendship, growing closer as the war drags on. Against the odds, a fledgling romance begins… but Scully, Mulder soon learns, is much more than a simple cafe owner, and the dangerous secret she hides could spell certain death for them both- and, quite possibly, for Scully’s entire village.





	1. Chapter 1

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE  
EARLY DECEMBER 1943

He has been coming to this tiny corner cafe every night for weeks, and every time he’s here, he notices something new about her.

At first, it’s superficial things, general things anyone would notice: the red of her hair, the way it constantly tries to escape the kerchief she often ties over it, her narrow waist with her apron cinched around it, her tiny size, the way she barely comes up to his shoulder in the low heels she wears to work.

Later, it’s smaller things: the intense blue of her eyes, the little mole above her lip, the girlish dusting of freckles across her nose, the thin brows that arch so expressively.

Now, after two weeks’ nightly observation, he’s begun cataloguing more minute details. She is markedly cool to the many German officers who frequent her cafe, but never rude, which is wise. Her business is surprisingly well-stocked with provisions, especially given the current food shortages that abound, so she must be a resourceful and savvy businesswoman. He’s well aware that many women throughout occupied France have reached “arrangements” with German officers in a desperate attempt to feed their families, but she does not appear to have resorted to such measures. He’s heard her addressed by locals as “Mademoiselle Scully,” which intrigues him, because Scully is not a French name.

And judging by the way her jaw clenches every time the soldiers dining in her cafe make crude remarks to one another regarding the lovely shape of her ass, he’s fairly certain she speaks quite a bit more German than she lets on.

The cafe itself is relatively nondescript, a small establishment in an equally small town. It sits on the corner of the high street, an awning covering a handful of outdoor tables that stand deserted in the winter chill. The swinging sign above the door is white, wooden, and carved in the shape of a whale, bearing the name “Cafe Pequod.” He’s well-read, quite familiar with Melville’s novel, and he’d love to find out how this rustic little restaurant ended up being named for Captain Ahab’s famous ship.

Obersoldat Fox Mueller- or Mulder, depending on who you ask- has been in one part of occupied France or another for over three years now, since being on the front lines of the Wehrmacht as it pushed its way into the country. First it was Reims, then Vichy, then Dijon, then Limoges, and now, for the past month, it’s been Oradour-sur-Glane. Mulder had thought the worst was over once he was no longer in battle… but in reality, the horrors were only beginning.

Mulder has witnessed true atrocities as a part of the invading army. France has been forced by Germany to pay for its own occupation, and the resulting food shortages are slowly but surely starving many of the country’s citizens. Mulder has seen “undesirables” being rounded up, rooted out of hiding, beaten, shot, herded onto trains and shipped to what he knows will be a slow and horrible death. The Resistance has been a constant thorn in the Wehrmacht’s side, and in retaliation, Mulder has seen innocent French citizens abducted, starved, and tortured.

He is not sure how much longer he can go on. He had never planned to remain alive this far into the war.

The Mulder family changed its name to Mueller some three or four generations earlier, when they emigrated from their Dutch homeland and re-established themselves in Berlin. Fox had defiantly written “Mulder” on his conscription paperwork, reasoning that in spite of his parents’ determination to ignore the past at all costs, he was equally determined to hang onto it. It is as much rebellion as he has been able to muster the strength for, and as he was assigned to a unit commanded by his father’s closest friend, who will not refer to him as anything but “Mueller,” it has been largely lost. Mulder’s captain, on the other hand, a strict but fair man who lacks the predilection for cruelty so evident in their commander, is more than happy to refer to Mulder by any name he wishes, and he counts this as a victory.

Mulder’s captain, Hauptmann Walther Skinner, can frequently be found at the Cafe Pequod, though he is not present this evening. Mulder finds himself wishing Skinner were here, because tonight’s gathering of soldiers is proving to be rowdier than usual, and he doesn’t like the looks some of them are throwing the harried Miss Scully as she threads her way through the tables. One of them, an ugly little troll Mulder knows by sight but not by name, actually reaches out and tries to grab her backside as she passes en route to Mulder’s table with his latest cup of coffee. She whirls around, pinning the man (who seems to have visited the tavern before coming here) with a glare so icy, Mulder is surprised the man’s cappuccino doesn’t freeze in its cup. _“Vous garderez vos mains a vous-meme,”_ she snaps, and then switches to German for emphasis. “Do _not_ touch me.” She turns and continues to Mulder’s table without sparing the man or his companions a second glance. _“Votre cafe, Monsieur,”_ she says, her fury effortlessly switched off, her formerly cool and detached manner reigning supreme once more.

“Is that man troubling you?” Mulder asks, his French perfect, his accent almost nonexistent. She raises her eyebrows in surprise. They have barely exchanged ten words until tonight, and always pertaining to his order, nothing more.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” she responds with a shrug of her shoulders, and she leaves before Mulder can think of something to say to get her to linger. In her absence he lapses back into brooding silence, watching Miss Scully as she winds her way through the tables, staring blankly out the windows into the cold December night whenever she disappears into the kitchen. The cafe begins to empty slowly around him as the hour grows later, until finally, the only patrons left are Mulder, the troll-faced soldier (who is loudly extolling the virtues of French prostitutes), and three of his companions.

“That’s the thing about France now,” he’s saying, his face red with drink. “When it comes to French women, there’s no difference between the whores and the rest of them. This whole country’s spread its legs for us, it’s ours for the taking!” Scully is facing Mulder, clearing off a table halfway between him and the men, and the way she squares her shoulders at these words removes any remaining doubt in his mind that she understands German. She looks up, catching his eye, her face full, for a moment, of an unfathomable sadness.

“Ashamed” is far too mild a word for what he feels right now.

She turns away, her arms laden with dirty plates and mugs, and heads for the kitchen again, passing by the soldiers, who are laughing loudly at their comrade’s crude remarks. Suddenly, the man stands and reaches out, grabbing her around the waist, sending her armload of crockery crashing to the floor as she is yanked back towards the table, landing in her attacker’s lap as he resumes his seat.

“Take this one, for example,” he says, as she struggles to free herself. “She’s turned down every man in here, but when her precious little cafe runs out of supplies, she’ll come running. It’s all in knowing what they-” But this is as far as he gets before Mulder, a red haze of fury clouding his vision, charges across the cafe and breaks the man’s nose with a single well-placed punch. Miss Scully springs free as the man falls backwards in his chair, and Mulder stands over him, fists up, ready to bodily throw this pitiful excuse for a human being out of the cafe if he proves unwilling to leave on his own.

It’s a noble, valiant thought, but in conceiving it, Mulder forgot to take the man’s companions into account, a fact that occurs to him just as one of them breaks a wine bottle over the back of his head, and the world goes dark.

——–

Bright sunlight assaults his eyes when he wakes, and at first, he can see little. He’s aware of lying on a soft surface, far too soft to be his cot at the encampment. There is a dull, throbbing ache at the back of his head, and a piercing pain somewhere above his right eyebrow. It takes a moment for him to realize that the pitiful moaning noise he hears is coming from his own throat.

“Shhhh.” A soft hand strokes the uninjured side of his brow. “It’s all right,” says a gentle voice, in French. He recognizes it immediately, struggles to sit up. A firm hand on his chest stops him. “Just relax,” she says. “You’ve been out cold all night.” As his vision adjusts to the bright light, he can make out a pair of impossibly blue eyes set in a pale face. He closes his eyes and swallows hard.

“Mademoiselle,” he croaks. His throat is incredibly dry. “Where am I?”

“You’re in my apartment, above the cafe,” she says. “Do you remember anything from last night?” Mulder closes his eyes. A series of disjointed images come to him slowly- the drunken soldier grabbing Scully, the satisfying _crack_ of his nose under Mulder’s knuckles, the blow to his head… then, much more fuzzy, the memory of leaning on the much smaller woman’s shoulders, staggering up a dimly lit staircase. As he looks around, his surroundings begin to come into focus. He is lying on a sofa in a small, cozy sitting room, bright sunlight pouring in through tall, thin windows. Scully is sitting on the edge of the sofa, and when she sees his throat working as he struggles to form words, she reaches over and retrieves a glass of water from a nearby table, holding it to his lips.

“Just a little at a time,” she cautions him, as he tries to guzzle the full contents at once. “With a head injury, you could be nauseous.” He continues to try to sit up, and she removes the glass and supports his shoulders until he’s steady. He can feel the warmth of her small hands through the back of his undershirt- his uniform jacket has been stripped off- and he feels the loss when she moves them back to her lap. He tries to swing his legs down onto the floor, but she stops him. “You should rest longer,” she says. “That was quite the blow to the head you took, and you hit the other side on your way down, as well.”

“Is that what I feel on my forehead?” he asks. He reaches up and touches a strip of bandage wrapped around his head. Scully nods.

“You caught the edge of a chair as you fell,” she says. “I had to put in a few sutures. You were quite unconscious by then, thankfully.” Mulder looks up at her in surprise.

“You’re a nurse?”

“A doctor,” she corrects him. “I studied medicine in Paris, before the war.” His surprise must be evident on his face, because she immediately admonishes him, “There’s no need to look so shocked.”

“I’m impressed, not shocked,” he says. “I promise.” She smiles at him, and his breath catches in his throat. For a moment, the pounding in his head recedes.

She is breathtaking.

“So how did you end up running this place?” Mulder asks. “Instead of practicing medicine?” He hopes the question is not too personal, but Scully doesn’t seem to mind his asking.

“My mother owns this cafe,” she says. “She became ill about five years ago, and none of my siblings were able to be here to care for her. And once she’d recovered….” Scully sighs, looking out the windows pensively. “I don’t think she feels safe working here, not now. After last night I’m sure you can see why.”

“I am so, so sorry for what happened,” says Mulder. “That man’s actions were inexcusable and I feel terrible that that happened to you.”

“My understanding, from whatever history I’ve studied, is that this is what an invading force _does_ ,” she says with an offhanded shrug, looking away from him. _And you are a part of that invading force_ , she doesn’t say, but he hears it as clearly as if she had.

“That doesn’t mean I agree with it,” he says. She arches her left eyebrow skeptically.

“You volunteered for this duty?” she asks pointedly. “Or were you conscripted?”

“Conscripted,” he says firmly. “And assigned to this unit against my strong protests, because the commander is a friend of my father’s. I wanted to serve at a military hospital instead.” The right eyebrow joins its mate on her forehead.

“You’re a doctor as well?”

“A psychologist,” he says. He catches sight of the clock on her mantlepiece and groans. “I need to get back to the encampment,” he says. “I’ve missed the morning roll call, they’ll think I’ve taken off.” He swings his legs to the floor and spies his boots next to the couch. He begins lacing them up. Scully stands and retrieves his uniform shirt from a nearby chair, handing it to him.

“I’ll come with you,” she says. “And explain to your captain the reason for your absence. You’re under Hauptmann Skinner, correct?” He looks up at her, surprised.

“How do you know that?” he asks.

“He speaks with you when he comes here,” she says. “I’ve overheard you once or twice. He seems a very even-headed man; I’m sure he’ll understand once I explain what happened.”

“You don’t have to do that,” says Mulder. The idea of her coming into the encampment, being around the same men who attacked her last night, frightens him.

“I want to,” she says, and she smiles at him again. “Your knight in shining armor routine was quite dashing last night. Making sure you don’t get in any more trouble for it is the least I can do.” Mulder grins.

“It seems a bit late for introductions, now that you’ve already taken off my shirt and boots,” he says, and she blushes, “but my name’s Fox Mulder.” She raises her eyebrows.

“Fox?”

“Don’t ask. Best to just go with Mulder.”

“Dana Scully,” she says, reaching out to shake his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“How does a Frenchwoman come by such a thoroughly un-French name?” asks Mulder.

“By having an American sailor for a father,” says Scully.

“Ahhh,” he says. “Wartime romance?”

“He swept my mother right off her feet,” says Scully. “But that’s a story for another time, I think. We need to get you back to your encampment before someone comes looking for you.” She helps him slowly to his feet, still holding his hand in hers. He’s wondering how long she’ll allow him this familiarity, but she lets go as soon as he finds his footing. He’s unsteady at first, but she is patient, and together they slowly make their way downstairs and out into the cold December morning.

———-

The encampment lies just outside the western edge of town, spread out over a farm that had been confiscated when the region had fallen to Germany. The unit commander and his staff have taken over the farmhouse; the tents of the captains and their men surround it. Mulder leads Scully to his own unit, determinedly ignoring the stares and whistles of the men around him, and finds Skinner sitting outside of his tent, reading a letter. He stands as Mulder approaches, his face unreadable. Mulder salutes him.

“Obersoldat Mulder,” he says gruffly. “I was told you were involved in an incident last night.”

“Yes, Sir, I was.”

“I understand that you assaulted another officer- that you broke his nose- because you were jealous of the attentions he was receiving from a local woman.” Mulder and Scully look at one another, eyebrows raised. “I take it that’s not quite accurate?”

“No, Sir, not at all,” says Mulder.

“Herr Skinner, Obersoldat Mulder defended me last night when another soldier made unwelcome physical advances. He was injured when one of that soldier’s friends hit him over the head with a bottle, and I kept him overnight at my cafe to suture his wounds and care for him.” Skinner says nothing, only looks back and forth between their faces, as though weighing the validity of their version of events. Finally, he nods curtly.

“Very well,” he says. “Mulder, keep that wound clean. I don’t feel like losing you to something as stupid as infection, not when you’re so determined to find a thousand other stupid ways to die.”

“Yes, Sir,” says Mulder, smiling slightly in spite of himself.

“And Fraulein Scully,” Skinner continues, turning to her, “rest assured that the soldier who bothered you will not be returning to your establishment. If he does, please let me know immediately.” He glances at Mulder. “Or perhaps Obersoldat Mulder will keep me informed, since I’m sure he’ll continue to haunt that back table nightly.” Mulder ducks his head sheepishly.

“I suppose I’ll see you soon, then, Mulder,” says Scully, smiling warmly at him.

“Count on it, Miss Scully,” he says. She laughs.

“I think we’d better make it just Scully, if you’re going to make me call you Mulder,” she says. “And you should be off your feet for at least awhile yet. That was a nasty knock on the head.”

“You heard her, Mulder,” says Skinner. “I’ll escort Fraulein Scully back to the cafe. Get yourself back to your tent immediately.”

Perhaps it’s the lingering aftereffects of the head injury, but Mulder makes it all the way back to his tent and is lying on his cot before he realizes that the entire conversation between himself, Scully, and Skinner had been conducted entirely in German. His earlier suspicion was correct: she is completely fluent, and hiding it from most of her customers.

Mulder is drifting off to sleep before he comes to a second realization: none of this was at all a surprise to Hauptmann Skinner.


	2. Chapter 2

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE  
DECEMBER 1943

If Dana Scully was on Mulder’s mind frequently prior to what she has begun to tenderly refer to as his “Lancelot impersonation,” he can admit to himself that he is now a man well and truly obsessed.

She occupies his thoughts when he wakes up, as he’s standing in line for morning roll call, and as he performs his daily duties, right up until he is dismissed in the afternoon and is free to make his way to the Cafe Pequod. After a few nights, she begins removing the chairs from his preferred back table, only replacing them when she sees him walking through the door, effectively reserving it for him.

He still sits there alone each night, drinking endless coffees and cappuccinos- that part has not changed. But now, Scully often brings him things he doesn’t order- sandwiches, flaky croissants, rich pastries full of fruit preserves and chocolate- and try as he might, he cannot convince her to accept any payment for them (though sometimes he’s managed to slide money into her till when she’s not looking). Initially, she tried to refuse payment for his coffee, as well, but there, he has stubbornly put his foot down. When it comes to keeping her pantry stocked, Scully might be managing better than most, but Mulder refuses to add to her burden if he can avoid it.

The other big change is that now, when the cafe is empty at the end of the evening and Scully locks the front door, Mulder is no longer on the other side of it. Each night, she removes her apron and hangs it behind the counter, fixes a cup of coffee for herself, and joins him at his table. Some evenings they share a sandwich, and once or twice, they’ve enjoyed a glass or two of wine, when a bottle opened for a customer went unfinished and won’t keep much longer.

Every night, for hours, they talk.

Mulder has learned that Scully’s parents met in 1917, when William Scully’s ship was docked in Calais during the Great War. They had married less than three months later. Scully was born in 1919 in California, and not in France, and lived in America until she was eight years old.

“So you speak English as well, then?” Mulder asks her, and she nods.

“I don’t have much opportunity to use it these days, but yes,” she says.

“No, I wouldn’t imagine you would come across many English speakers in such a small town,” Mulder answers- in English. His accent is quite strong, but his grammar is perfect, and Scully is delighted.

“Where did you learn to speak it?” she asks.

“I attended Oxford University,” he says. “I very nearly stayed in England when I was finished, but my mother wanted me to come home.”

Mulder learns that Scully’s mother returned to France with her four children shortly after losing her husband to a heart complaint in 1927. Both of Scully’s brothers, one older and one younger, returned to America in 1938, where they promptly joined the navy, just like their father. Scully has an older sister, whose free-spirited lifestyle, Mulder gathers, is something of a scandal around the town. Scully has no idea where she is; the last postcard her sister sent was over a year ago, from India.

“What about you?” asks Scully. “Any brothers? Sisters?” Mulder studies his coffee intently.

“I had a sister,” he says. “Samantha. Four years younger.” He pokes his spoon around in his cup. “She died when she was fifteen, the same year I left for Oxford.” Scully’s face is full of gentle sympathy.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. She does not ask how Samantha died, nor does Mulder expect her to. He hasn’t known Scully long, but already he knows she is a private person, who respects others’ need for privacy as well, and she will not ask for more information than he wants to give. Part of him really does want to tell her the story… but not yet. He spends too much time dwelling on it already.

Her mind is a marvel to him.

In addition to being fluent in French, German, and English, she also speaks Spanish, and enough Dutch and Italian to get by. Her American primary school moved her up a grade, and her French school moved her up another. Though she was forced to leave university before completing her medical degree, she has continued learning on her own, in hopes of resuming formal studies after the war. She reads books to educate herself on all manner of subjects and seems to retain nearly everything she learns. Her brilliance astounds him.

“Why Cafe Pequod?” he asks one evening. “I mean, I know where the name comes from, but what’s the significance?” Scully smiles.

“It’s an homage to my father,” she explains. “‘Moby Dick’ was his favorite book. He read it to all of us when we were little. The cafe was owned by my mother’s uncle, originally, but he passed away the same year as my father. He was childless, so he left everything to my mother, and with my father gone, coming back here to take the place over seemed like an opportunity for a fresh start. She re-named the cafe, and my siblings and I made the sign for her.”

He spends every day coming up with new things to ask her that evening. He is hopelessly in love with the sound of her voice. Its sweet cadence is a balm to his wounded soul.

————

It’s two days before Christmas when he begins to notice the pies.

Most of Scully’s clientele, as a rule, consists of German officers and enlisted men these days. Times being what they are, not many of the townspeople have money to spare for eating in a restaurant. So when a local does come into the cafe, Mulder notices. And the few he’s seen today stand out particularly in his mind, because none of them have actually stayed to eat. In each case, a man has approached the counter, where Scully has addressed him by name, made some small talk, and then retreated into the kitchen, returning in short order with a pie, which she places into a white box. Each time, she has handed it to the customer with a flourish and a smiling, “Thank you for your order,” and the customer has left without another word.

It wouldn’t stick out in his mind so much, except that he hasn’t seen any money change hands.

The most logical assumption he’s been able to make has been that, with ingredients being as expensive as they are, Scully probably took payment when the orders were placed, so that she would be able to afford the extra flour and sugar that making the pies would require. He’s never seen anyone place an order, it’s true, but he reminds himself that he’s only here in the evenings.

Hauptmann Skinner stops by tonight, right before closing, and much to Mulder’s surprise, he takes a seat at Mulder’s table. Mulder starts to get up to salute his captain, but Skinner waves him back down brusquely.

“You must be single-handedly supporting this establishment at this point,” says Skinner. “How do you manage to spend your entire evening drinking coffee without being wide awake the rest of the night?”

“Who says I’m not?” says Mulder. “I don’t require much sleep. Never have.”

“You must have been a delight for your mother as an infant,” says Skinner.

“Oh, I think we can agree I’m a delight for anyone, at any time.” Mulder says wryly, and Skinner smirks. Across the room, Scully emerges from the kitchen and catches sight of Skinner at Mulder’s table. She smiles, backs into the kitchen, and returns a moment later with yet another pie, which she boxes up and carries over.

“Your order, Hauptmann Skinner,” she says, placing the box before him.

“Thank you, Miss Scully,” he says. “And please, call me Walther.” She smiles.

“Well then, Walther, I insist you call me Dana.” She glances up as the last customers stand and leave their table. The cafe is now empty, save the three of them. “Mulder and I were about to have something to eat, once I’ve locked up. Would you like to join us?” Mulder is startled at the invitation, and more than a little relieved when Skinner immediately declines it. He likes his captain well enough, but he likes his evenings alone with Scully more.

“That’s kind of you, but no,” says Skinner, pushing back his chair. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.” He stands, picking up the box containing his pie. “Goodnight, Dana. And Obersoldat Mulder, try not to break any noses tonight, all right?” Mulder grins.

“I’ll do my best, Sir,” he promises.

Scully follows Skinner to the door and locks it after him. She unties her apron, hangs it up, and sets about making their coffee. When she returns to the table, she carries a tray laden not only with their mugs, but with two slices of cherry pie, as well. “I had some left over,” she explains. “You’ll help me make sure it doesn’t go to waste, won’t you?” Mulder’s mouth is already watering as he accepts his slice.

“I will selflessly consume any and all leftover pie you find yourself burdened with,” he says, taking a large bite. The crust is buttery and flaky, and the filling, cherry preserves no doubt put up last spring, is the perfect balance of tart and sweet. “This is amazing. Did you make all these pies yourself?”

“No, my mother and I made them together,” says Scully. “She and I thought perhaps we could bring in a bit of extra money by selling them for Christmas. I took orders last week, and we spent last Sunday baking them.”

“It’s an excellent idea,” says Mulder. “I think I’ll need to find out what Skinner’s doing with his and see if he’s willing to share.” Scully laughs.

“Speaking of Christmas, and of my mother,” she says, “I’ve been instructed to invite you to join us for Christmas Dinner.” Mulder freezes, a forkful of pie halfway to his mouth.

“Your… your mother?” He swallows. A Frenchwoman, the widow of a man who fought Germany in one war, and mother to two boys who are fighting Germany in this one, inviting a German officer into her home? It doesn’t seem likely. “Why would she do that?”

“I’ve told her about you,” says Scully with a nonchalant shrug. “I told her all about your Lancelot impersonation, how you defended me even though it could have gotten you in trouble. She knows you were conscripted, she knows you don’t want to be here. And I mentioned that I was sorry you’d have to spend Christmas in the camp, since the cafe will be closed. I get the impression you don’t have many friends there.”

“What makes you think that?” It’s absolutely true- Skinner is the closest thing he has to a friend in the entire German army, perhaps in all of Germany- but he wants to know how she’s arrived at that conclusion.

“You wouldn’t be spending every night here with me, if you had friends in your unit to spend your off hours with.”

“Scully,” he says, “no matter how many friends I may or may not have in camp, I would still be spending every night here with you.” Now it’s Scully’s turn to freeze, her wide blue eyes fixed on him. A blush spreads across her cheeks as she smiles softly.

“So will you come?” she asks, and her voice is hopeful. “I can promise there will be more pie.” Mulder laughs.

“It would be an honor,” he says.

———

Mulder spends most of Christmas Day in his tent, alone, reading a book borrowed from Scully’s personal library. The camp is quiet- Christmas Day has many of his fellow soldiers thinking of their families at home, and a persistent melancholy has settled over them. Mulder, by contrast, is only too happy to be far from his family, from his father’s cold indifference and his mother’s drunken silences. Escaping that hostile environment had been the only good thing about being sent to France, and he’s decided that, no matter which way the war goes, no matter how it ends, he will not be returning to Berlin. He feels his familial obligations have more than been met.

It’s a new idea for him, contemplating life after the war. His original plan had been to hope for death on the battlefield, as soon as possible, but that hasn’t happened. He had thought, initially, to simply stand still at the first enemy gunfire, to present himself as a target and let French and British rifles do what he had thus far been unable to do for himself. What he hadn’t counted on, however, was his protective instinct towards the men around him, even though off of the battlefield, he didn’t care for them in the slightest. But when the guns were blaring, when adrenaline spiked and shells fell all around them, Mulder found he could not turn a blind eye to the soldier cowering in fear to his left, to the wounded man huddling behind a tree to his right. He felt, every time, an overwhelming urge to defend them, to get them to safety, to lead them out of harm’s way. He could not do that by standing still and hoping for enemy rounds to take him down.

Once the occupation had been accomplished, Mulder’s thoughts had again turned to suicide, to the loaded pistol strapped to his side at all times. The idea had become more and more tempting as time had gone on, as he had moved from one town to another, as he had been forced to witness more and more acts of senseless brutality. His inability to act, to stand up and stop them from happening, had only deepened his sense of shame and worthlessness. At times he could almost hear his sister’s voice in his ear, sweet Samantha with her unshakable sense of right and wrong, Samantha who cried as a child to see a mouse caught in a mousetrap and could not bear to witness cruelty in any form. He could almost hear Samantha demanding him to act, to defend these people, to do something to protect them… but he didn’t. He couldn’t. And his own powerlessness deepened his self-hatred until finally, he could see no reason to go on.

And then had come Scully.

The night he had come to her defense had been the first time he had felt able to protect someone since those days in battle. He had thought nothing at all of throwing himself across the cafe and lashing out at her attacker- even though, as she has pointed out more than once since then, it could have resulted in punishment for him if Skinner had not believed their version of events. And since that night, their blossoming friendship has made him feel, for the first time since Samantha’s murder, as though there is someone in the world who genuinely cares for him. He has forgotten, until now, what it is to have someone look at him with something other than disgust or indifference.

Though three weeks of sharing coffee and conversation every evening are hardly enough to warrant planning the rest of his life around this woman, he cannot deny that certain questions have begun to pop up in his mind. For the first time, he’s actually begun to wonder, with a real sense of investment, how this war will end. If Germany wins, what will happen to her town, to her cafe, to her? Would she ever consider leaving the country with him? How will she even look at him if the Allies lose? Is it possible she would ever be able to mentally separate him, the bottom-rung German soldier here against his will, with the army that has obliterated the life she once knew? Does he even deserve for her to do that?

And if the Allies win, what will happen to him? Will the entire occupying force be shot on sight? Or will it be even worse than that- all German soldiers sent back to Germany, forbidden to leave the country ever again? It would be madness to even ask Scully to come with him, absolute insanity. Mulder knows he is getting ahead of himself, that he and Scully do not truly know that much about each other. He has not even met her mother yet.

The thought reminds him to check the time, and he finds he is expected at the cafe in less than a half hour. Marguerite Scully lives in a farmhouse just to the east of the village proper, and Scully is going to meet Mulder and walk him there after attending Christmas Mass. Mulder rolls off of his cot, tucking the book under his pillow, and washes up as best he can. He wishes he had something other than his uniform to wear, but at least it’s clean. He digs down to the bottom of his pack, unearthing the bottle of wine he’s scrounged up as a gift, and sets out.

The few soldiers Mulder passes as he leaves the camp give him the cold shoulder. The true account of his “Lancelot impersonation” has, sadly, been overthrown in favor of the version circulated by the drunken oaf and his friends, and the fact that Skinner chose to believe Mulder’s story does not sit well with the men. Add in Scully’s clear preference for his company, and it’s no surprise that Mulder is even less popular among his comrades than usual these days.

He passes the tavern en route to the cafe. Light and laughter spill out the windows and open door into the street, in sharp contrast to the darkened shops all around it. The upper-echelon officers from Mulder’s unit and from two others nearby have taken it over for their own Christmas party, and Mulder knows that this is where Skinner is tonight. Mulder cannot see him through the windows, and he does not stop to look closer- the few officers gathered outside the tavern are glaring at him and whispering to one another as he passes. They say nothing to him, though he can feel their eyes on him as he rounds the corner and continues on out of their sight.

Ahead of him, underneath the swinging wooden whale, in the shadows beneath the awning of the Cafe Pequod, Mulder can see a small form, bundled up tightly against the cold night, watching for him. His face breaks into a grin, and as he draws closer, he sees that she is smiling, too. Tonight is the first time he has seen her outside of the cafe since the morning she walked him back to his encampment. Impulsively, he bends down and kisses her cheek- not the quick peck that is customary in France, but a lingering press of his lips. He feels her shiver, and while it could just be the cold weather, he doesn’t think it is.

“Merry Christmas, Scully,” he says, aware that his grin has reached almost embarrassing proportions.

“Merry Christmas, Mulder,” she responds. Her blush is evident even in the dim glow of the streetlamps. She takes his arm, and together, they make their way down the high street. “Pleasant holiday so far?”

“Not terrible,” he says. “I spent most of it on my own, reading. Probably the best I could hope for, with the cafe being closed.” She smiles up at him in a way that makes his heart skip a beat. “And yours?”

“Mass was interminable,” she says, “but I promised my mother I would go, so there was no way out of it, really. And yesterday we had letters from both of my brothers, so my mother is happy to know they’re both safe.”

“Nothing from your sister?”

“No, nothing,” she sighs. “But that’s not really a surprise. Knowing Melissa, she probably doesn’t even realize it’s December, much less Christmas. She’ll blow into town one day, months from now, wearing harem pants or something equally ridiculous, thinking she’s been gone three months instead of three years. She’ll stir up a barrage of new rumors and whispers all over town, and just as it’s dying down, she’ll disappear again.” She shakes her head. “Honestly, I try not to think about her too much when she’s not here, because if I do, I’ll just worry. And I’m already worried about my brothers all the time as it is.” Mulder covers her hand on his arm with his own, giving it a comforting squeeze. “How about you? Any word from your family for the holidays?” He stiffens slightly.

“No,” he says. “My parents and I don’t really speak much. I haven’t had a letter from either of them in awhile… not for over a year, in fact. I think they assume that if something happened to me, my unit commander would contact them, but beyond that….” He shrugs. “We weren’t very close to begin with, and Samantha’s murder was hard on the entire family. It made the distance between the three of us even greater.” Scully stops walking and stares up at him, blue eyes horrified.

“Your sister was murdered?” He curses inwardly for his slip. “Oh, Mulder… that’s horrible. I’m so sorry.” He swallows hard, not meeting her eyes. The urge to tell her the entire story, to confide in her, is stronger tonight than it has been so far… but this is not the time. He forces a smile onto his face.

“I’ll tell you about it sometime,” he promises, “but not tonight, all right? It’s too sad a story for Christmas.” She frowns, looking tempted to argue. “Scully, I haven’t had a truly enjoyable holiday in a long, long time. I’m really looking forward to this dinner… can we leave it for another day?” She nods.

“Of course,” she says, squeezing his hand. They continue along the high street together in a companionable silence, arms clasped, sides pressed together against the cold.

——

Marguerite Scully lives in a lovely two-story farmhouse a mile outside of town, set in the middle of orchards that Mulder imagines supplied the fruits that filled the pie he ate two days ago. Several goats graze in a small paddock alongside a handsome draft horse, a blanket secured around his haunches, his breath steaming in the cold. A large barn and other, smaller outbuildings loom off to the right, and beyond them, Mulder can see several cows in another small field. Chickens peck about the yard as they make their way to the door.

“Your mother manages all of this herself?” asks Mulder, impressed.

“She has two hired hands who help out,” says Scully. “She brings in more men when the fruit is in season. This farm provides most of what I need for the cafe, and what isn’t produced here- the flour, sugar, coffee, the sandwich meats- I’m able to trade for with the extra milk, butter, eggs, and preserves we have left over.” The horse trots to the edge of his paddock as they pass, and Scully stops to rub his silky nose affectionately. “I come and help with the milking, most mornings,” she says. “My brothers used to take care of the manual labor, before they left. Now they send money when they can to help us afford the extra hands.”

“Now I feel guilty keeping you up so late every night,” says Mulder. “You must be exhausted, getting up that early.”

“Oh, no, please don’t feel bad,” Scully implores him, as they continue up to the door. “Our evenings together have become the high point of my day, Mulder. You have no idea how much I’ve come to enjoy them.” Mulder puts his hand gently on her arm, stopping her, holding her in place.

“I think I do, Scully,” he says softly. “I can’t even begin to tell you what it’s meant to me.” They stand facing one another, with less than a foot between them, and Mulder is finding it very difficult to breathe. Scully’s eyes seem to draw him in like magnets, and suddenly he wants to kiss her so badly that he knows he’s not going to be able to stop himself. He begins to lean in, and in some shocked corner of his mind it registers that she is not pulling away, that she is, in fact, tilting her chin up to meet him-

The door to the farmhouse is thrown open with a clatter, and Mulder and Scully jump apart. A porch light is thrown on, revealing a small, handsome older woman standing in the doorway, smiling at them.

“Dana, darling, bring your friend in here before you both freeze. It’s far too cold to be standing around outside!” she exclaims, and Scully smiles up at Mulder sheepishly, and- is he imagining it?- with a twinge of regret. She takes his arm again and leads him up to the door.

“Maman,” she says, “I’d like you to meet Fox Mulder. Mulder, this is my mother, Marguerite Scully.” Mulder takes her proffered hand and kisses it, and she smiles warmly.

“Fox, it’s lovely to meet you,” she says.

“I’ve told you, Maman,” interjects Scully, “he doesn’t like to be called Fox, it’s-”

“Mulder, I know, I know,” says Mrs. Scully with a wave of her hand. “I’m sorry, but I simply can’t call a guest by nothing but his surname all night. Fox is a perfectly lovely name.” Scully tries to interrupt again, but Mulder just laughs.

“Fox is just fine, Mrs. Scully,” he says, and Scully raises her eyebrows at him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” As Mrs. Scully leads them down the hallway, Scully glances up at him.

“You won’t let me call you Fox,” she whispers, eyebrows still raised.

“Did you really want to that badly?” he whispers back. The grin she gives him makes his heart stutter and his hair stand on end.

“Maybe sometimes,” she murmurs coyly. She takes his arm again before he can respond, leading him to the dining room table.

The meal is the most enjoyable Mulder has had in living memory. The food is incredible, and the conversation is easy and pleasant. Mrs. Scully does not probe about his own past- Mulder suspects that Scully, sensing his caginess about his childhood, has warned against it- but she tells him stories of how she met her husband, of their lives in America, of Scully and her siblings as children. She is genuinely grateful for Mulder’s defense of her daughter, profuse in her thanks almost to the point of embarrassing him. She is amused by Mulder’s habit of calling Dana only by her surname.

“It reminds me of my husband, in all honesty,” she laughs. “The last time anyone at my table referred to a member of my family as simply 'Scully,’ it was his Navy friends.”

The evening passes quickly, and much too soon, Mulder and Scully are once again bundling up against the cold, preparing to walk back to town.

“I wish you would just stay here tonight, Dana,” says Mrs. Scully as she sees them to the door. She has given Mulder an entire half of a cherry pie to take back to camp with him, and she likely would have given him more if he could carry it. “I hate to think of you all alone in your apartment on Christmas.”

“I know, Maman,” says Scully, giving her mother a hug. “But I have to open the cafe tomorrow, and there are things I need to do there tonight. By the time I get to bed, it’ll be too late for it to matter what day it is.” Her mother kisses her, then turns to Mulder.

“Fox, it was lovely to have you here,” she says, and Mulder is touched at how much she seems to mean it. “Will you join us for Sunday dinner next week?” He is surprised, and looks to Scully, who nods encouragingly at him.

“I would love to,” he says, and Mrs. Scully beams.

——–

The walk back to town is mostly silent. Both Mulder and Scully are too full and sleepy to say much, but he is enjoying her company, her arm in his, her warmth bleeding into him through their overcoats.

“Was that your idea, inviting me to dinner again on Sunday?” he asks, finally, as they’re entering the village and nearing the cafe.

“Not at all,” says Scully. “She really liked you.”

“I’m touched, says Mulder, and he means it. Defense of her daughter or no, Mrs. Scully has no obligation to be kind to him.

"I’m glad she asked,” says Scully. “I won’t get to see you on Sundays otherwise, with the cafe being closed for the day.” They have arrived at the cafe, and stop under the awning just outside the door.

“You won’t get sick of me?” jokes Mulder, but Scully does not laugh.

“Never,” she says softly, gazing up at him. She rests her hands on his chest, the heat in her fingers burning straight through his overcoat. She tilts her head up towards him, and this time, he doesn’t think twice before leaning down.

But once again, it is not to be. Dimly, as Mulder closes his eyes, he detects the faint smell of cigarette smoke, getting stronger, and it registers that someone is approaching just as the sound of a man pointedly clearing his throat makes Scully startle and pull away from him. Cursing his horrible luck, Mulder looks up. Standing ten feet away, his face unreadable, is Hauptmann Skinner… and next to him, his ever-present cigarette clutched tightly in his fingers, is Mulder’s commander.

“Oberst Spender, Hauptmann Skinner,” says Mulder, snapping to a salute. Normally, he’s not terribly strict with himself about remembering to salute Spender- who, after all, has been a constant and unwelcome fixture in his life for as long as he can remember- but he doesn’t like the way Spender is looking at Scully. He’s hoping to take the focus off of her, to give her the chance to get inside and up to her apartment, because this is someone from whom Mulder cannot defend her.

“I trust your holiday was enjoyable?” says Spender, and Mulder nods tightly. “And you, Fraulein Scully?” He addresses Scully, still in German, though Mulder knows he speaks perfectly passable French. “Has this season been profitable for your business?” Scully is silent, and when Mulder looks down at her, she is regarding Spender with an expression of polite confusion. He realizes with a jolt: she is pretending not to understand him. Mulder senses, suddenly, that the quickest way to get her out of here, to protect her, is to play along. He helpfully translates Spender’s question into French. She looks surprised, but grateful.

“Yes, sir,” she answers, still in French. “Your men have been most gracious. I appreciate their business.” For a moment Mulder considers translating this back into German, more to annoy Spender than anything else, but Spender merely nods.

“Curfew is still in effect, even on Christmas,” says Spender. “I would suggest, Fraulein, that you would do well to be indoors. The men have been celebrating the holiday, and I would hate for anything… unfortunate… to occur.” His blood boiling, Mulder translates this as well, and Scully nods shortly. She steps back, further from Mulder.

“I’ll see you tomorrow evening, then?” she asks him, but before he can respond, Spender cuts in, this time in French.

“I think not, Mademoiselle Scully,” he says. “Obersoldat Mueller is long overdue for nighttime guard duty, and it’s time we corrected that.” Mulder clenches his jaw in fury. Not this too, he thinks. Not the last thing I still have that makes me happy. He can still come to the cafe during the day, it’s true, but it will be busy, and Scully will not be able to sit and talk with him the way she does now. Mulder is about to round on his commander, no doubt to say something that will be impossible for Spender to overlook, but he feels a soft touch on his arm. Scully is looking imploringly at him, and her expression says, as clearly as if she’s spoken out loud:

We’ll find a way around this.

He nods, and consoles himself with the reminder that guard rotation only lasts a week. Spender cannot keep him away from her indefinitely, but if Mulder fights him on this, he’ll likely find a way to do so.

“Best to get inside now,” says Spender. “The punishment for violating curfew is rather harsh, you know.” Scully spares him one look of cold fury, the color high in her pale cheeks, then turns and lets herself into the cafe, locking the door behind her. Mulder waits until the lights are all off, signaling that she is safely upstairs, before turning on his heel and striding back to camp as quickly as he can, not waiting for Spender or Skinner to follow.


	3. Chapter 3

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENE, FRANCE  
LATE DECEMBER 1943

The cafe, Mulder finds during the week between Christmas and New Year’s, is an entirely different place by daylight. Aside from being brighter and warmer, it’s also more crowded. He’s surprised by how many of the daytime patrons are locals, and when he asks Scully about it (in a quick, stolen moment as she’s bustling between tables), she explains that most of the townspeople prefer not to go out in the evening at all. Spender wasn’t joking about the punishment for breaking curfew being harsh. It’s just not worth the risk to be out too close to curfew, should something come up to prevent getting home in time.

Mulder is also surprised that so many of the townspeople can afford the luxury of daily coffee and pastries, but it takes him less than a day to notice that Scully is not taking payment from most of them. From spending so many evenings here, Mulder already knows she’s doing a decent business off of the soldiers that pack the place every night, and his heart swells with admiration and affection when he realizes that Scully is, in fact, running a de facto soup kitchen, using money from the occupying force to alleviate the suffering of the very people the Germans are trying to starve.

She is, without a doubt, the most amazing woman he has ever known, and if he was at all unsure about his feelings before, being suddenly deprived of their nightly conversations has made everything quite clear to him.

He is absolutely and irretrievably in love with her.

Since being placed on nighttime guard duty by Spender, five days ago, Mulder has developed a new routine. He is relieved from his post at five o'clock every morning and returns to his tent to sleep for the shortest possible time he needs to remain functional. Somewhere between nine and ten in the morning, he wakes, washes, and heads straight for Cafe Pequod. He remains there for the entire day, eating all his meals there (and insisting on paying- he has threatened to return to camp for his meals if she keeps returning his money), and stealing any opportunity to talk to Scully. By six in the evening, he is back at his post, doing his best not to dwell too much on how much he would rather be elsewhere.

Today, Mulder is sitting at the table closest to the register. When Scully isn’t taking orders, delivering food, or in the kitchen, she’s most likely to be at the counter, so this affords the most chances to talk to her. They can’t say much, not with so many people around them, but just the sound of her voice is enough to keep him going as he waits out the rest of the week. He will need to be at his post tonight and tomorrow, but on Friday night, he’ll be free to do as he wishes.

Of course, Friday night also happens to be New Year’s Eve, and he doesn’t even know if Cafe Pequod will be open, but if Mulder gets the chance today, he’s going to ask Scully to celebrate New Year’s with him. He doesn’t care what they do or where they go; he only knows he wants to be with her.

Scully has just finished entering a soldier’s money into the register, and Mulder is about to ask her if the cafe will be open on New Year’s, when a man approaches the counter. He’s dressed as though he’s just finished a day in the fields, and Scully smiles warmly at him in welcome.

“Mademoiselle Scully, I’m wondering if I could order another of your lovely pies?”

“Yes, of course,” says Scully. She retrieves a notepad and pencil from beside the register. “What kind would you like?”

“Apple, I think,” says the man.

“How many people are you looking to feed, and when will you need it by?”

“It’s for four people,” responds the man, looking unaccountably nervous, “and I’ll need it on the fourth of January.” Scully appears lost in thought for a moment, contemplating what she’s written on her notepad. After a moment, she nods decisively.

“I think I should be able to do that,” she says. “Come and pick up your order on the third.” The man thanks her, and leaves. Mulder watches closely, but he doesn’t see any money change hands. He raises his eyebrows at Scully, who looks up at him as she puts her notepad away.

“So the pies weren’t just a Christmas thing?” he asks. She shrugs.

“They were so popular that my mother and I decided to continue,” she explains. She bustles off to the kitchen before Mulder can say anything else, returning a moment later with a tray of sandwiches to take out to a table. The cafe is busier today than Mulder has ever seen it, and when Scully returns with an armload of dirty plates, she’s looking distinctly harried. “I’m nearly out of clean dishes, but it’s too busy to go in the back and wash any,” she sighs. “I don’t know how much longer I can go without hiring a dishwasher.”

Mulder doesn’t stop to think about what he’s doing, about whether or not Scully will be offended. He stands, picks up his empty coffee mug, and without asking permission, strides around the counter, heading for the kitchen. When Scully rushes in after him, sputtering in confusion and surprise, he is already standing at the overflowing sink, sorting dishes by type, preparing to wash them.

“Mulder, what on earth do you think you’re doing?” she demands.

“I think that’s pretty self-explanatory, Scully,” he responds calmly, plugging the sink and turning on the faucet. “I’m lending a hand. Free of charge, I promise.”

“That’s not your job, Mulder,” she protests. “I don’t need you to do it for me.”

“Of course you don’t,” he says, adding soap to the water. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to do it for you.” Scully puts her hands on her hips. She opens her mouth to argue, but is interrupted by the insistent ringing of the bell by the register. Someone is waiting to place an order. “Go ahead,” Mulder says, turning off the water and taking down a plate from the stack, beginning to wash it. “I don’t mind, Scully. I promise. Go take care of your customers.” Scully hesitates a moment longer… but finally, the corners of her mouth turn up in a reluctant smile.

“I’d better not tell my mother about this,” she says. “She’s already impressed enough with you breaking someone’s nose in my defense. If she finds out you can do housework as well, she’ll be marching us both to the church and escorting us down the aisle herself.” Mulder laughs, his heart stuttering in his chest at the thought.

“I’m all too happy to defend lovely ladies from boorish oafs and dirty dishes alike,” he says, smiling at her. She crosses the little kitchen, stretches up on tiptoe, and kisses Mulder on his cheek, before turning and going back out to the register to answer the bell. Mulder stands at the sink, washing one dish after another, his cheek burning where her lips touched him. He can hear her talking to a customer- what sounds like another pie order, cherry this time. Mulder wonders when she finds the time for baking all of these pies, between running the cafe and helping her mother with the farm.

Scully returns after a few minutes. She takes up a position at his left elbow and begins to dry the dishes he’s washed, stacking them on the counter as she finishes. She doesn’t speak for awhile, but when Mulder glances down at her, a small smile is playing across her lips. He’s about to ask her about New Year’s, but she speaks before he can begin.

“Will you still be on guard duty Friday night?” she asks.

“No, Thursday will be the last night,” he says, sighing with relief. “I’ll be a free man on Friday. Which reminds me-”

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” The bowl Mulder is washing slips from his hands and splashes into the sink, dousing them both in soapy water. Scully jumps back with a cry of surprise.

“I’m so sorry!” he apologizes, horrified, but she’s laughing. She wipes her face with the towel she’s been using to dry the dishes, then stretches up to pat his face dry, as well.

“No harm done,” she says, grinning and returning to her task, as he retrieves the (thankfully unbroken) bowl from the water and continues to wash it.

“You want to have dinner with me?” he asks. “On New Year’s Eve?”

“I’ll be closing the cafe at six,” she says. “I thought you could come by at eight. Would that be all right?” She looks up at him anxiously, as though there’s any way he could possibly refuse.

“I would love to, Scully,” he says, and the smile that lights up her face is pure magic. For a moment, he thinks of trying to kiss her again, but there’s the bell, heartless in its interruptions, and with a wistful smile, Scully is gone again.

New Year’s Eve, Mulder promises himself. If the magic of the New Year can’t make something happen, he doesn’t know what can.

———

When Mulder trudges back to his tent at five in the morning on December thirty-first, the sky above him is packed with steel-gray clouds, and the smoky bite in the air announces coming snow. It’s begun to fall by the time he’s crawling into his cot, and when he wakes, some six hours later, the ground is covered in several inches of powdery white. He washes himself as best he can in the freezing tent, keeping close to the potbelly stove at its center, and shaves, managing to avoid nicking himself in spite of his shivering hands. He steps outside his tent to find some lunch (in the camp, for once- Scully has told him she’ll see him at eight and not before), and runs smack into Hauptmann Skinner. Mulder snaps to a salute, which Skinner brushes off.

“Finished your night rotation, Mulder?” he asks, shifting the rucksack he carries to his other shoulder.

“Yes, Sir,” says Mulder. “Last night was my last night.” Skinner nods. He glances carefully up and down the rows of tents.

“Are either of your tent mates in there?” he asks, gesturing behind Mulder.

“No, Sir,” he says. “Both on morning guard.” Skinner indicates to Mulder that they should go inside. Skinner sits down in the spot Mulder vacated moments earlier, on the chair by the stove, and Mulder sits on the edge of his cot. Skinner studies him shrewdly, as though deciding what to say, and Mulder says nothing, waiting.

“I would advise you, Obersoldat Mulder,” says Skinner, “to be careful about how you’re seen with your friend.” Mulder feigns confusion, more to annoy Skinner than anything else. He genuinely likes the man, but he can’t resist pushing his buttons, just a little bit.

“My friend, Sir?” he asks blankly, and Skinner glares at him.

“You know who I mean,” snaps Skinner. “She likes you, you like her, and that’s all well and good, but flaunting whatever’s going on between the two of you will lead to trouble.”

“Nothing’s going on, Sir,” Mulder protests. Technically, it’s not a lie; he’d very much like for something to be going on, but between watchful mothers, bells, and son-of-a-bitch colonels, they’ve gone nowhere at all. “We sit together, we talk, that’s it.”

“Yes, and then you have dinner with her mother and let your commander catch you trying to kiss her,” says Skinner, rolling his eyes. “What I’m saying, Mulder, is that you need to be careful. There are many men in this army- and Oberst Spender is most certainly one of them- who would see behaving like that with a Frenchwoman as an act of disloyalty.” Mulder glowers at him.

“Half the men in this camp have done much more than talk with women in every town we’ve visited, Sir,” he says, thinking furiously of the soldiers who offer food and money to the mothers of hungry children in exchange for their bodies.

“It’s not the same and you know it,” says Skinner.

“Are you saying that’s somehow better?”

“No, of course I’m not,” says Skinner. “And I’m not telling you to stop seeing her, Mulder. I’m just saying… be careful. You don’t want to give them ammunition to use against you.” Mulder continues to glare. “And at the very least, you don’t want to make things difficult for her, do you?”

“No, Sir,” admits Mulder grudgingly.

“You’re going over there tonight, I’m assuming?” asks Skinner. Mulder just stares at him, not answering. “Oh, come on, Mulder, I just said I’m not going to tell you to stop seeing her. Now are you going there tonight, or not?” Mulder nods. “All right, then. You got anything to bring her?”

“No, Sir,” says Mulder. He’d meant to try and get his hands on another bottle of wine, but there hadn’t been time. Skinner rolls his eyes, mumbling something that sounds very much like “Amateur,” and reaches for his rucksack, which is on the ground by his feet. He draws out a bottle of champagne.

“Bring her this, then,” he says, passing it to Mulder. “Can’t celebrate New Year’s without champagne, right?” Mulder takes the bottle, eyes wide.

“Sir, I can’t-”

“Yes, you can.” Skinner waves off his protests. “Spender gave me three bottles. Consider this my apology for not being able to overrule your nighttime guard duty this week.”

“He wouldn’t like you giving one to me, Sir,” says Mulder. Skinner stands to leave.

“Exactly,” he says. “Happy New Year, Mulder.”

———-

With Skinner’s warning fresh in his mind, knowing the tavern on the high street will be full of officers, Mulder takes a more circuitous route to Cafe Pequod. The streets are dark and empty, the residents of Oradour-Sur-Glane celebrating the turn of the year quietly, in their own homes. He wonders how many of them are drinking toasts to this being the year the occupation is over, the year Germany is sent packing and the French people get what’s left of their country back. Mulder knows the rumors: the Allies are advancing through Italy, the Russians are fighting ferociously in the East, and British and American bombing raids are pounding Germany daily. And sooner or later, the Allies will cross the Channel and attack from the west. It’s inevitable.

By this time next year, it could all be over.

Mulder ducks his head against worrying where he’ll be next year, choosing instead to think of the evening ahead. Scully hasn’t said anything about what they’ll be doing. He assumes they’ll be sitting in the cafe like always, and she hasn’t mentioned anyone else being invited, though he supposes it would make sense for her mother to be there, at least. And though he feels slightly sad at the idea of sweet Mrs. Scully spending tonight alone, he’s really hoping this will be a dinner for two.

Approaching the cafe, he can see light glowing behind the plate glass windows, and as he gets closer, he can see Scully, standing just inside the door, out of the cold, waiting for him.

Mulder’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of her.

Until now, the only things he’s seen Scully wearing are long skirts, utilitarian ones with many pockets, and simple blouses. Her hair is nearly always tucked under a kerchief, and her feet are always encased in hard-wearing, low-heeled boots. Tonight, she’s wearing a dress of royal blue satin, the bodice fitted to her every curve, pulling in at her narrow waist and flaring out into a skirt that ends just below her knees. The cap sleeves and scooped neckline show off her slender arms and expose her collarbone. Her hair is in a sleek, shiny wave, and she wears black high heels.

He’s never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.

Scully smiles expectantly at him, and he realizes he’s stopped walking in the middle of the street- is, in fact, standing there with his mouth hanging open, doubtless looking like a complete idiot. He wills his feet to keep moving, and soon, she’s opening the door of the cafe to welcome him inside. Up close, he can see she’s wearing makeup: her eyes are smoky, her lips a fine red pout. He knows he should compliment her, offer something flattering that will bring a gentle blush to those white cheeks, and he opens his mouth, prepared to wax poetic with comparisons to Venus and Helen of Troy.

“Wow,” is what comes out. And instead of her blushing, he’s the one whose face is suddenly an embarrassing shade of scarlet. Scully grins at him, taking his hand and drawing him inside, shutting and locking the door behind him. He remembers the bottle of champagne hidden in his coat, and brings it out. Her face lights up.

“Where did you manage to find this?” she asks, delighted. “I wanted to get us some, but it was impossible.”

“It was a gift from Hauptmann Skinner,” says Mulder. “He instructed me to share it with you.”

“Oh, were you going to drink it on your own otherwise?” Scully asks.

“No! Of course not, I-” He breaks off when he sees she’s smiling coyly at him. Taking the bottle, she leads him across the empty cafe. He expects her to go to their usual table, and he’s surprised when she passes right by it, heading for the kitchen.

“I thought we could eat upstairs,” she says. “This being a special occasion and all.” He has not been up to her apartment since the evening she sewed up his forehead and kept watch over him all night. It would keep them out of sight of the windows, to be sure- he’s taken Skinner’s warning to heart, even if it rankles- but he can almost hear his mother’s voice whispering in his ear about propriety.

“You’re sure that’s all right?” he asks her.

“Yes, of course,” she says, unblushingly. “Though, if my mother asks, we ate downstairs in full view of the windows, okay?” Mulder grins.

“Understood. She’s not coming this evening, then?” Scully laughs.

“Maman? I don’t think she’s stayed up later than nine o'clock at night since she was a teenager. Her only exception is midnight mass on Christmas Eve, and even then, she dozes off against my arm.”

Upstairs, Scully’s cozy apartment is full of tantalizing smells. Her table is set for two, complete with candles, and various dishes are spread out between the place settings. She’s made gigot d'agneau pleureur, lamb cooked slowly over potatoes, and there is fresh bread, vegetables swimming in butter, and another of her wonderful pies for dessert. It’s the best meal Mulder has had since before the war. They take their time eating, savoring the rich foods, enjoying Skinner’s champagne, and talking twice as much as any night in the past, making up for a week of rushed words in passing. Scully tells him stories of living in Paris and studying medicine, of how all the female students would band together against the men, most of whom seemed to think the idea of a woman being a doctor completely ludicrous.

Mulder, in turn, tells her about Oxford, about trying to keep up with classes in a language he had trouble understanding at first. He tells her about letting freedom from his parents go to his head, about juvenile pranks gone awry, about discovering his passion for psychology, learning that his ability to empathize so thoroughly with others could actually help people. He even tells a few stories from his childhood, rare, closely-guarded gems about him and Samantha growing up together in Berlin. He knows she won’t ask him to tell her more, especially not tonight, and so he feels safer talking about Samantha than he ever has before.

Their meal finished, Scully refills their champagne flutes and leads him into the little parlor, seating herself on the same sofa he spent the night on, weeks ago. Mulder hesitates to sit beside her, wary of being too forward, but she smiles invitingly up at him, and he knows it’s all right. He sinks down into the cushions. Scully looks at him thoughtfully, as though she wants to say something, but isn’t sure how to begin.

“Is something wrong?” he asks her.

“No, of course not,” she says. “I’m just….” She bites her lower lip thoughtfully. “I want to suggest something, but I’m not sure how you’ll take it. Nothing like that!” She catches sight of his raised eyebrows and wide eyes. “No, I… well, I know you’re not in the army by your own choice, and I know from what you’ve told me that you have no real love for Hitler… but….” She looks across the room, towards a radio sitting on a side table. “Mulder, what are your thoughts on music and dancing?” He smiles.

“I’m quite fond of both,” he says.

“I know there are kinds of music that Hitler has forbidden,” she says. “Am I safe in assuming you think as much of that as you do of the rest of his policies?”

“Very safe,” he says. She bites her lip again, and then smiles.

“All right, then,” she says, and she stands, crossing the room. She turns on the radio, manipulating the dial carefully, passing static and propaganda and stations playing endless folk tunes, until she catches something quite different. Mulder’s eyebrows lift in surprised pleasure as she turns back to him, Artie Shaw’s “Begin the Beguine” rolling gently from the radio’s speakers. “I don’t know where they’re broadcasting from, and sometimes they’ll go quiet for days at a time,” she says, “but this station plays the most wonderful music.” She crosses back to him, but instead of returning to the sofa, she places her champagne flute on an end table and holds out her hand to him.

“Mulder, will you dance with me?” A wide smile breaks out across his face. He puts down his own glass and stands, taking her hand.

“Scully, there’s nothing I’d like more.” He slides his arm around her waist, and she lays hers about his shoulders- the heels give her the height she needs to reach- and they begin to move together. It’s an in-between sort of song, not quite fast and not quite slow, and while Mulder can’t hold Scully quite as closely as he’d like to, he’s still nearer to her than he’s been in days, and it’s heaven on earth. She’s wearing perfume tonight, something she’s never done before, and this close, the scent is intoxicating. Between that, her proximity, and the champagne, his entire head is fuzzy. He prays for this wonderful miracle of a radio station to stay on the air, terrified tonight will be one of the nights Scully mentioned that it goes quiet, no doubt to hide from Nazi raiding parties attempting to shut down unsanctioned broadcasts.

But tonight, for once, luck is on his side, because not only does the music continue to play, but the next song is a slow one. Mulder has heard Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade” once or twice before and found it lovely, but now, with Scully standing in front of him, the sweet, lilting melody seems a gift directly from above. Scully looks up at him, and before he can wonder whether or not she’d be all right with dancing a bit closer, she’s moving into him, wrapping her arm more tightly around his neck and laying her head tenderly on his chest. He lets out a great, shuddering breath and tightens his hold on her, resting his cheek against her silky hair.

If this is to be the high point of his life, standing in this tiny room holding this tiny woman against him, breathing in her sweet scent and feeling her heart beating against his, Mulder thinks he might be able to live with that. He has never felt this way about anyone, and somehow, though she’s never said it, he knows she feels the same. If they had met in any other circumstance, he thinks it perfectly likely he would already have dropped to his knee and asked her to be his… but that’s not possible, not now, and so Mulder is content, for the time being, to live in these stolen moments of perfection, hoping that maybe, one day, there can be more. And tonight, New Year’s Eve, seems the perfect time to hope for that. It’s a time of new beginnings, and why shouldn’t Mulder, whose life has been one disaster after another until now, be allowed to hope for a new beginning of his own? Why can’t Scully be that for him?

“Mulder, look,” she says softly, lifting her head from his chest and pointing at the clock on her mantlepiece. The minute hand is poised to strike midnight, and as they watch it does, the little clock chiming out the hour, the change from one year to the next. When Mulder looks back down at Scully, he discovers she’s looking up at him, almost expectantly. Her blue eyes are full of promise, and before anything else can happen to stop them, Mulder wraps his arms around her, leans down, and presses his lips to hers.

He had intended it to be gentle, but Scully is braver than him, bolder, and she surges against him, twining both arms around his neck and winding her fingers into his hair. Her lips part beneath his and her tongue slips out, seeking entrance, which he gladly grants. He runs his own along her lips, her teeth, pulling her tightly against him with one hand at her back and one in her hair, messing up her sleek tresses. She doesn’t seem to mind.

They are still kissing long after the clock finishes chiming.

When they finally come up for air, their faces are flushed, their eyes wide and dark. Mulder looks down, taking a moment to compose himself, before he meets her eyes again.

“Happy New Year, Scully,” he says. She smiles softly.

“Happy New Year, Mulder.”

——–

When Mulder walks back to the camp, some time later, it’s begun to snow again, the wind whipping between the buildings and driving sharp flakes into his face. He doesn’t notice at all.

He’s never felt so warm in his life.


	4. Chapter 4

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE  
EARLY JANUARY 1944

The evening of Sunday, January second, finds Mulder making his way through snow-covered back and side streets, taking the longest, most deserted route possible to Marguerite Scully’s house. Thanks to his encounter with Oberst Spender a week ago, he had been forced to decline her original invitation for the Sunday after Christmas, but she was kind enough to extend it a second time.

This time, however, Scully is not escorting Mulder to her mother’s house herself. At Mulder’s strong suggestion, Scully left the cafe in the morning of New Year’s Day to spend the weekend with her mother, after taking care of everything that would need doing to open the cafe on Monday. She will stay the night at her mother’s, rather than walking home with Mulder, and head back to Cafe Pequod after helping Mrs. Scully with the morning chores on the farm. Mulder has relayed Hauptmann Skinner’s warning to her, and though Scully has been, predictably, dismissive of any threat to herself, she knows risking being caught out after curfew again would be unwise. Mulder misses her company on the long, cold walk through town, but the idea of Oberst Spender coming after Scully terrifies him, and so he wraps his overcoat tighter around himself and plods on.

Mulder hasn’t seen Scully since her left her at her door on New Year’s Eve. He had badly wanted to risk one more quick kiss before he left, but it seemed madness to risk being caught by some drunken soldier making their way back to camp. Tonight, they’ll be in the constant company of her mother, but Mulder’s hoping hard that, at the end of the evening, Scully will at least see him to the door by herself. He wonders if she’s spent as much of this interminable weekend thinking about their kiss as he has.

Mulder is also wondering about how their evenings in the cafe will progress after this. Will they still sit downstairs, in full view of the windows, as they have every night so far? Or will her upstairs parlor no longer be reserved for special occasions? The thought of spending every evening upstairs, alone with her, sitting next to her on her sofa, maybe dancing again, maybe doing a bit more than dancing…. The shiver that runs down his back has nothing to do with the cold.

It’s clear enough to him that when it comes to kissing, Scully has had plenty of practice. She might blush whenever Mulder hints at his feelings for her, but she was not even the slightest bit shy in his arms on Friday night. He has no doubt that if he had not leaned down to kiss her as the clock had struck twelve, she would have taken matters into her own hands. She invited him up to her apartment to be alone with her with no hesitation at all, not the least bit concerned that Mulder might think her forward. She is bold and confident, no shrinking violet, and while Mulder knows exactly what his mother would think (and what her mother would probably think, as well), in his eyes, it’s just one more thing for him to love about her.

Physically, she is self-assured and unafraid.

Emotionally… Mulder gets the feeling that the territory in which they find themselves is as unfamiliar to her as it is to him.

Mulder feels his gait quickening as Mrs. Scully’s farm comes into view. Lights blaze warmly in the downstairs windows, and he can see shadows moving back and forth behind the curtains. Lots of shadows. He frowns. Did Scully mention that anyone else would be eating with them this evening? He crosses the yard and knocks smartly on the front door. He recognizes Scully’s quick, crisp steps on the wooden floor inside, and the door opens.

“Mulder!” Scully exclaims, her face alight. She glances over her shoulder to be sure the front hall is empty; then, too quickly for him to respond, she stretches up on tip-toe to give him a peck on the lips. He grins.

“Good to see you, too, Scully,” he says.

“Please, come in.” She shuts the door behind him and takes his coat. He turns to go down the hall to the dining room, but she lays a hand on his arm, stopping him. “We’ve got some extra company tonight,” she says. “One of my mother’s hired hands is here with his wife and his two daughters. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, of course not.”

“We’ve told them who you are, but….” She chews her lip nervously. “The girls may be a bit uneasy around you. The uniform, you know?” He hangs his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish I had something else to change into. Are you sure it’s all right for me to be here? I can come back next week-”

“No, no!” says Scully adamantly. “They’ll warm up to you, I’m sure.”

“I don’t want to make this meal unpleasant for them, Scully,” he says. Mrs. Scully has been very welcoming towards him, it’s true, but Mulder is well aware that to a French child, there is little these days more frightening than a Nazi uniform.

“It will be fine,” says Scully, taking his arm firmly and leading him to the dining room. The reception Mulder receives when they get there, however, makes him think it will be anything but.

Sitting at the head of the table, Mrs. Scully beams when she sees Fox, but hers is the only smiling face in the room. The four others, adults and children alike, look horrified, and the youngest, a girl of perhaps seven, actually gets up to hide behind her mother. The farm hand and his wife are in their thirties. All four have dark hair, and when Mulder looks at the older daughter, who is maybe twelve or thirteen, his heart almost stops. With her dark pigtails, serious face, and wide blue eyes, she is so much like Samantha that for a moment he can hardly breathe.

“Fox, I’m so pleased you could make it tonight,” says Mrs. Scully, standing and crossing the room to kiss him on the cheek. “This is Albert Marchand, his wife Sophie, and their daughters, Helene and Christine.” She turns to the Marchand family. “This is Dana’s friend, Fox Mulder.”

“Who prefers to be called simply Mulder, regardless of what my mother says,” interjects Scully. Mulder grins affectionately at her, then extends his hand to Mr. Marchand, trying to keep his smile as warm as possible.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he says. Mr. Marchand raises his eyebrows at Mulder’s perfect French, and stands, taking Mulder’s hand and shaking it, his expression wary. He does not tell Mulder that he is glad to make his acquaintance, but Mulder does not expect him to. He nods at Mrs. Marchand, who is trying to settle her youngest daughter back into her chair, and smiles at the two little girls, who continue to stare at him as though, at any minute, he will bare his fangs and rush at them.

This is going to be a long evening.

Mrs. Scully does her best to keep the conversation flowing, as does her daughter, but the meal is full of awkward silences. Mr. and Mrs. Marchand speak only to Mrs. Scully, with an occasional word to Dana, and nothing at all to Mulder. Their daughters are completely mute, though both of them eat as though they never see food- which, Mulder reminds himself, may not be too far from the truth these days. Unlike Christmas Day, when Mulder wished the evening would never end, tonight, he is all too glad when the last slice of pie has been consumed. When Mrs. Scully suggests they all retire to the sitting room, Mulder begs off, saying he has to be on duty first thing in the morning. Scully looks disappointed, but she stands to walk him out all the same.

“I’m sorry,” she says in a low voice, as he stands by the door, shrugging into his coat. “I didn’t know ahead of time that Maman had asked them to eat with us. I feel terrible that that was so uncomfortable.”

“It’s not your fault, Scully,” Mulder reassures her. “And it’s not theirs, either. Your mother’s willing to forgive what I am and where I come from, but that’s only because she has it in her head that I rescued you from dire peril.”

“You did,” says Scully, smiling playfully.

“Please, Scully,” he scoffs. “I might not have realized it then, but I know you well enough by now to know that if I hadn’t been there, you would have taken care of the situation all by yourself. You didn’t need me to save you.”

“But you did anyway,” she says. “Mulder, you’re not like them. You never asked to be here, you didn’t have a choice.”

“Yes, I did,” says Mulder. “I could have ignored my conscription notice. I could have chosen prison instead. I could have just left the country, but I didn’t. I chose the path of least resistance.”

“The path of least resistance would have been to just sit back and watch the show when that soldier was putting his hands all over me,” says Scully, “but that’s not what you did. You got up, you took a stand, and you tried to protect me.” Scully takes her hands in his, brings them to her lips, kisses his fingertips. “There’s more good in you than you know, Fox Mulder. I hope that one day you can see that.” Mulder says nothing- his throat is so tight that he couldn’t speak if he wanted to. Scully seems to understand. “Come on,” she says, taking a shawl from a hook by the door and wrapping it around her slender shoulders. “I’ll see you out.”

The air outside is still frigid, but the wind has died down, and the sky is clear, the half moon bright in the sky. Halfway down the path to the front gate, Scully suddenly remembers something and reaches into her pocket.

“I nearly forgot,” she says, drawing out a silver key. “Would you be able to do me a favor, Mulder?”

“Of course,” he says. She presses the key into his hand. “What’s this?”

“It’s my mother’s key to the cafe,” she says. “There’s a large bowl of bread dough in the refrigerator that will need to come to room temperature before I work with it tomorrow morning. Would you mind stopping in and moving it to the kitchen counter?”

“No problem,” he says, taking the key and slipping it into his pocket. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes,” she says, and suddenly, she’s grabbing his head and pulling it down to hers, pressing her entire body against him as she kisses him. He doesn’t think, just reacts, grabbing her around the waist and nearly lifting her off of her feet as he kisses her back. It occurs to him suddenly that Mrs. Scully could easily be watching from her front window, and he tries to pull away, but Scully won’t let him. The kiss goes on and on, until he’s lightheaded, dizzy, and very aware that there is no way, pressed as tightly against him as she is, that she can mistake the evidence of what she is doing to him. He finally lets go and steps back, embarrassed, worried he’s probably made her uncomfortable, but the look in her eyes is anything but shy. She bites her lip, glances down quickly, then meets his eye again, grinning.

She is going to be the death of him.

“You’ll be all right walking home?” she says. For a moment, he’s so distracted, her question barely registers. “Mulder?”

“Yeah,” he manages to squeak, and her grin gets even wider. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow night?”

“Count on it,” he says, and she lets him out of the gate. He waits until she is safely inside her mother’s house, then turns, walking in such a way that will have anyone who sees him thinking he’s had too much to drink. In a way, they would be right.

Mulder is drunk, beyond a doubt, but not on wine.

———

The first week of 1944, for Mulder, is like living in a dream, like a week out of someone else’s life. On Monday afternoon, when he tries to return Scully’s extra key, she tells him to keep it, “for emergencies,” though for the life of him, Mulder can’t imagine what sort of emergency that would be. He, in turn, teases that if he’s going to carry a key to the cafe, he ought to be expected to help out, and despite her very vocal protests, he disappears into the kitchen more than once to wash dishes whenever she starts to get behind.

When Scully locks the door and hangs up her apron that evening, Mulder holds his breath, waiting to see what she’ll do. He’s disappointed, for a moment, when she comes over to the table where he’s sitting, but instead of taking a seat herself, she reaches over and picks up his empty coffee mug. “Come on,” she says with an inviting little toss of her head, reaching out to him with her free hand, which he takes in his own. She leads him through the kitchen.

“It seems silly to keep sitting downstairs every night, when we could be more comfortable in my apartment, listening to music,” she says, setting his coffee mug on the counter and leading him upstairs. “Besides, if Hauptmann Skinner is right, isn’t it better for us to be up here, where your comrades won’t see us?”

Mulder is certainly not going to argue with that logic.

Each evening, she makes them coffee in the smaller kitchen upstairs, and they drink it sitting on her sofa. They still talk every night, getting to know one another better and better. Scully plays her radio, when the station with the good music is on the air, and sometimes they dance.

Sometimes they just stay on the couch… but not talking.

The only dark spot in the entire week happens in camp on Wednesday, where, Mulder is grateful, Scully doesn’t have to see it.

He is returning to his tent following the morning roll call when he becomes aware of footsteps immediately behind him, speeding up. The moment an arm is thrown about his shoulders in what’s clearly supposed to be a chummy gesture, Mulder knows exactly who it is.

Jeffrey Spender has been a fixture in Mulder’s life for nearly as long as his cigarette fiend of a father. He is Mulder’s junior by several years, nearly the same age as Samantha, with whom he had been hopelessly infatuated. He was always an insecure, petulant child, and he has grown into an insecure, petulant man. He and Mulder were thrown together frequently as children whenever Spender Senior came to visit Mulder’s father, the two men making the all-too-common assumption that their fathers being friends ought to be enough to make playmates of two boys who otherwise had nothing at all in common.

Jeffrey Spender was annoying enough as a child, but since he arrived in Mulder’s unit a year ago to be his father’s aide-de-camp, he has been insufferable. Spender wears his newfound authority with all the bluster and brashness of a picked-on schoolboy who has suddenly received his first taste of power. Mulder generally does everything possible to avoid him. His bravado, his compulsive need to show off and flaunt his position to the other men, grates on Mulder’s nerves, and since Spender outranks him, it seems prudent to avoid any situation where he might be tempted to allow his mouth to run away from him.

Now, however, there’s nowhere to go, and Mulder has no choice but to continue on his way with Spender’s arm around his shoulders, several of his cronies loping along on either of Mulder’s sides.

“Good morning, Spender,” says Mulder, struggling to keep his tone amiable. It’s easier to have Spender continue to think of him as a friend than it would be for the fledgling bully to count him as an enemy. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, Fox, nothing,” says Spender, and his friends snicker at the use of Mulder’s given name. “I just haven’t seen you around, is all. Your pretty little redhead seems to be keeping you awfully busy.” Mulder swallows hard, but says nothing. “I’ve heard you’ve developed quite a taste for her… coffee.” The others guffaw, but still, Mulder stays silent. “Do you think she’d share some with me, Fox? I’ve always been fond of a good, strong coffee.” Mulder bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. Go on and try, you rat bastard, he thinks to himself. Scully would have you on your knees in thirty seconds flat, begging her not to make your head part company with your shoulders. He does not say this out loud, though; a man like Spender is likely to see a strong woman as a challenge, a wild horse whose spirit needs breaking.

“You know, Spender,” says Mulder, taking a completely different tack and changing the subject, “I was thinking, the other day, of that time our families went to Vienna together. Do you remember?” Spender stops laughing. “And then we went skiing in the Austrian Alps.” Yes, Spender remembers, Mulder knows he does, because Spender had been too frightened to ski down a steep trail on his own. His father had forced him, and Spender had been so terrified that he had wet himself, right in front of Samantha, and his father had bullied him over it for the rest of the trip. “That was a great holiday, wasn’t it? It’s too bad our unit wasn’t assigned there, instead of in France. Much more to do and see, am I right?” It’s a threat, and Spender knows it. _You may have these men thinking you’re a tough, seasoned soldier_ , the threat says, _but I know who you are and where you come from. Mess with me, and everyone else will know, as well_. Mulder can see from the set of Spender’s jaw that he gets exactly what Mulder isn’t saying. “Good to see you, Jeffrey,” says Mulder, clapping Spender on the shoulder. “I need to get myself some breakfast before my duties.” And he’s off, striding quickly away from Spender and his friends.

That night, he tells Scully about Spender, describing the weasel-faced man as best he can, in case he takes it into his head to visit the cafe when Mulder’s not there. But the threat seems to work, and for now, Spender stays away.

———

On Friday, Mulder plays cards with some of the men, and manages to win himself a very nice bottle of wine. He brings it with him to the cafe as a gift for Scully, and she sets it aside in the kitchen, to be enjoyed later. He sits at his table, watching the pleasing sway of her hips as she bustles from one table to the next, listening to her make conversation with local customers and offer short, single-word answers to the German soldiers. He still has not figured out why she so determinedly pretends not to speak German, but he hasn’t asked her about it. Perhaps tonight.

Several more townspeople come in to order pies. The demand for them has clearly not fallen off following Christmas. This evening one order, in particular, stands out in Mulder’s mind. The man who places the order seems to be nervous- they all do, perhaps because the cafe is so full of German soldiers- but that’s not what catches Mulder’s attention. He orders a cherry pie, which he tells Scully he’ll need on January tenth, and when she asks how many people the pie will need to feed, he tells her just one. Mulder shakes his head, smiling. Scully’s pies are amazing, he’ll admit, and he’s no slouch in the appetite department himself, but even he would find it a challenge to eat an entire pie in one sitting. He amuses himself with the mental picture of a great, fat Frenchman, sitting alone at his table, his napkin tied around his neck, with a massive cherry pie before him.

After closing, Scully leads them upstairs and pours them each a generous measure of Mulder’s wine. She sits down on the sofa and pats the space right next to her, smiling invitingly up at him. He doesn’t hesitate to sit by her, sliding his arm over the back of the sofa behind her shoulders, touching her as natural now as breathing. They make their way through half the bottle of wine over the next hour.

“I need to be at my mother’s unusually early tomorrow,” she says after awhile, putting their empty wine glass on the end table and sighing regretfully, “so as much as I don’t want to, I’ll have to throw you out a bit early tonight.” Mulder groans and leans his head back. “I know,” she says soothingly, leaning against him, her breath warm on his neck. She nuzzles at him, and he shudders involuntarily. She draws back and looks at him. “But listen,” she says, “Maman told me one of her farm hands is taking care of the milking for her this Sunday, and I’m not planning on going to Mass, so tomorrow night, I was thinking you could stay a bit later than normal.” He studies her face, wondering if she could possibly be asking what he thinks she is.

“How late?” he asks, hardly daring to hope. She shrugs nonchalantly, but her eyes are sparkling with mischief.

“As late as you’d like,” she says. He stares at her, swallowing hard. She reaches up to stroke his cheek, and leans in, kissing him sweetly. He wraps his arms around her, all but pulling her into his lap, losing himself in the feel of her, the sweet scent of her. His lips leave hers and kiss a slow trail across her cheek and down her neck, and he feels her inhale sharply as he finds the sweet spot behind her ear. He feels one of her hands leaving his neck, reaching back for his own hand, drawing it away from her back and bringing it between them. He assumes she’s telling him that that’s it, it’s time for him to go home, and he reluctantly releases the earlobe he’s gently holding between his teeth… but then she turns his hand over in her own and places it gently, but purposefully, on her breast, and he’s touching her-

Oh God, he’s touching her.

He’s so shocked he nearly draws his hand away, but she holds it in place firmly until she’s sure he won’t move, and only then does she put her arm back around him.

“Scully,” he gasps against her neck, “you’re not going to make me leave just yet, are you?” She laughs against his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t be that cruel,” she says, scratching her fingernails against the back of his neck. “You can stay a little longer, I suppose.”

———–

Scully lets Mulder out of the cafe an hour earlier than she normally would, but decidedly later than she’d planned. Half way back to the camp, however, he realizes he’s forgotten his uniform hat. He remembers removing it in the kitchen while helping her with the dishes, and if he didn’t have morning roll call tomorrow he would just leave it and get it later, but he’ll be disciplined for forgetting it if he shows up to muster without it, so he turns back. He doesn’t want to wake Scully if she has to be up earlier than usual, but he has her extra key in his pocket, and he reasons that he ought to be able to let himself in, retrieve his hat, and lock the front door again without disturbing her.

The cafe is dark and silent when Mulder slips in and heads straight for the kitchen. He tries not to think too much about Scully lying in bed above him, in her bedroom that he’s never seen but that he thinks, just maybe, he might be invited into tomorrow night. His hat is lying on the counter where he left it, and he positions it on his head and turns to go.

_THUD._

A noise, as though something heavy has hit the floor directly above him, makes him jump. Could someone have broken in since he left? Is Scully all right? His hand twitches to his side, looking for his pistol, when he remembers that, like an idiot, he left his sidearm locked in his footlocker, in his tent, over two miles away. He glances around the kitchen and his eyes land on the block of knives. He grabs the largest, sharpest-looking cleaver, and quietly makes his way up the stairs to Scully’s apartment. The door at the top is standing slightly open, light shining through, and he opens it wider.

Scully is crouching by the sofa in the parlor, facing away from him, clearly all right and not lying on the wooden floor unconscious as he’d feared. Mulder releases a breath and lowers the knife, feeling like a paranoid idiot… but then, Scully stands and moves to the side, and Mulder feels his stomach dropping out beneath him.

There is a man lying on Scully’s sofa. Boots off, jacket unbuttoned, looking quite at home… in the exact spot where, not long before, Mulder sat. And Scully’s hand is caressing the man’s cheek.


	5. Chapter 5

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE  
EARLY JANUARY 1944

Mulder stands frozen in the parlor doorway, the arm holding the knife hanging limp at his side, horror-struck and heartbroken at the scene before him. He feels like a complete and utter fool. He had been certain, completely certain, that Scully cared for him, that it was possible she was even in love with him… but he should have known, he should have realized that there was nothing a woman like Dana Scully could possibly see in a man like him. He feels no anger, only a familiar sense of shame and self-loathing, a sudden remembering that he is not now and never has been deserving of love and kindness. The rug has been pulled out from under him, but he should have seen it coming: all happiness is, for him, fleeting.

He thinks it would probably be best if he were to back out quietly and try to leave without her seeing him, rather than interrupting and creating a scene. But just as he reaches this conclusion, the man on the sofa shifts his gaze to Scully’s right, and he catches sight of Mulder. The man’s eyes fly wide open in panic, and he tries to sit up. Startled, Scully turns, following the man’s gaze, and when she sees Mulder, all color leaves her face, and her eyes fill with terror. Even in his state of absolute and total dejection, Mulder finds the fear radiating off of Scully painful. Could she really think so little of him that she believes herself in danger from him?

“Mulder!” she gasps. “What are you doing back here?” She’s speaking English, which seems strange to him under the circumstances. They occasionally speak English together because Scully says she misses speaking it with her childhood friends, but right now hardly seems the time for nostalgia. He supposes she might be trying to keep the man, who is trying valiantly to rise from the sofa in spite of Scully’s best efforts to stop him, from understanding them. He doesn’t want to make things more difficult for her, and he obliges.

“I forgot my hat,” he says, also in English. “I used my key to let myself back in to get it because I didn’t want to wake you. I heard a noise… I wanted to make sure you were all right….”

“What’s a German officer doing with a key to your flat?” demands the man on the sofa suddenly, having given up trying to stand. He is speaking English, is clearly British, and Mulder realizes he had it backwards: Scully wants the man to understand them. That’s why she’s not speaking French or German. “What are you trying to pull?” The man looks terrified. “Are you turning me in?” Scully turns back to him.

“No, Mr. Nelson, of course not,” she says. “This man is no threat to you. Now will you please sit still before you tear your stitches?” The man obliges, but he continues to look at Mulder with wary distrust. And now, Mulder begins to notice things he overlooked before, in his shock: the needle and thread in a dish on the end table, the basin of bloody water on the floor, the damp cloth in Scully’s hand. This man, disguised in ill-fitting civilian clothing, is clearly a British soldier.

The wheels in Mulder’s head are turning, gears shifting, puzzle pieces falling slowly into place. The reason Scully pretends, to all but Mulder, that she only speaks limited German. The strange orders placed and picked up at the cafe daily, no money ever changing hands.

“You’re with the Resistance,” he says. Scully closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Mr. Nelson,” she says to the man on the sofa, “I want you to rest here for a bit. Close your eyes and try to sleep, all right? I need to speak with my friend for a moment.” She takes Mulder by the elbow and leads him across the parlor, down a short hallway, and into her bedroom. She closes the door and turns to him. For a moment, neither of them speaks. The horror Mulder felt earlier, when he thought that the man out in the parlor was Scully’s lover, is nothing compared to what he’s feeling now.

“What group are you with?” he asks, finally. “The Gaullists? The SFIO? French Forces of the Interior?” Scully looks ready to argue with him, to refuse to answer, but after a moment, she sighs deeply, all the fight going out of her. She looks down.

“I’m not with any particular group,” she says. “I help whichever group comes to me… I assist them in moving people, arranging their transportation and their hiding places. The man out there is a pilot who was sent to me by Dutch-Paris.”

“How have I not noticed you’ve been hiding people in your apartment until now?” asks Mulder. “I’m here every night. Late.”

“They only actually come to my apartment if they need medical attention,” says Scully. “Most of the time I only make the arrangements and provide information.” Another piece of the puzzle slides into place in Mulder’s head.

“The pies,” he says. “That’s how you communicate, isn’t it?” She nods.

“The flavor of the pie tells me who needs to be moved- if it’s Jews, Allied soldiers, or political refugees. The number of people the pie is for tells me how many people are in the group, and the date the order is due is when they need to be moved by. I make the arrangements and put their instructions inside the box with the pie when the person helping them picks it up.” It’s an ingenious system, but Mulder is not in the mood to be admiring just now.

“Scully,” he says quietly, “what will you do if they catch you?” She says nothing, but really, she doesn’t need to. Mulder knows full well what will happen, because he’s seen it happen many, many times over the past three years.

If she is caught… they will kill her.

“You can’t do this, Scully,” he pleads with her. “It’s too dangerous. If they find out… if they catch you… I can’t protect you then, Scully, I’d never be able to get to you in time. You’ll be put to death before I even know you’ve been arrested.”

“I know that, Mulder. I’m not asking you to protect me.”

“But why, Scully?” he asks. “Why are you risking this much?”

“I have to. I have no choice.”

“Yes, you do,” he insists. “You can survive this. If you keep your head down, if you keep yourself safe-”

“At what cost, Mulder?” she asks. “How many people can I help to save who would die if I just kept my head down? People keeping their heads down, minding their own business and keeping themselves safe, that’s how men like Hitler win, Mulder. Evil things can only happen if good men- and women- stand by and allow them to happen, and I refuse to do that.”

“But why you, Scully?” he asks. “Why do you have to be the one to do it?”

“Because I’m here, and because I can,” she says. “I can’t stand by and allow innocent people to suffer when I have the power to help them, Mulder. I don’t know how to do that. It’s just not who I am.” She fixes him with a steely blue gaze. “And I don’t think it’s who you are, either.”

———–

Mulder does not sleep at all that night. Lying on his cot in his tent amidst the untroubled snores of his tent mates, he replays his argument with Scully in his head over and over. She had told him, at the end of it, that she needed him to leave, that someone would be there early in the morning to escort the British pilot to his next hiding place. She needed the man to relax and sleep, to regain his strength for the coming journey, and he couldn’t do that with a German officer a room away.

“If I don’t see you here tomorrow, Mulder,” she had said as they stood at her door, her voice soft and sad, “I’ll understand. But…” She had taken his hand, squeezed it briefly, and let go. “I hope you’ll be here.”

He didn’t know if he would. Not yet.

It wasn’t a question of whether he approved of what she was doing or not. He understood- God, he understood- the anger at the injustice, the desire to change it, to fight back. It was her suggestion that perhaps he should be fighting back, possibly at her side, that unnerved him.

Shortly after dawn, when Mulder is thinking to himself that he should really just give up on sleeping and prepare for morning roll call, he hears the sound of boots, many boots, rushing by outside. He sits up and begins to dress. As he’s buttoning up his uniform jacket, another soldier from his company rips back the flap of his tent and sticks his head inside. He sees that Mulder is awake, and bellows at the other two men until they, too, are sitting up, rubbing sleep out of their eyes.

“The night patrol caught a family of Jews on the western edge of town,” says the man, excited. “It’s too long before the next transport train to send them to a camp, so Oberst Spender is assembling a firing squad. We’re all to assemble immediately.” Mulder and his tent mates exchange nervous glances as the soldier lets the tent flap fall back into place and departs. The three men splash water on their faces, dress, and lace up their boots, all the while saying nothing. Mulder has met many soldiers who take delight in executions, who clamor for the “honor” of taking part in them… but he has also met many soldiers who are troubled by them.

He has yet to meet any willing to try to put a stop to one.

They receive word that they are to muster outside of the encampment, instead of next to the mess tent, the way they normally would. The men line up by company, and when Mulder has found his place, in the front row of his company, just behind where Hauptmann Skinner stands at attention, counting his men as they assemble, he looks beyond Skinner’s shoulder, to the open patch of ground the unit is facing. Three rough graves have been dug at the edge of a field where this farm’s previous owner once grew wheat. Mulder is familiar enough with the proceedings: the prisoners will have been made to dig their own graves, and when the firing squad is ready, the condemned will stand facing their executioners, the guns will fire, and the prisoners will fall neatly into the graves they themselves have prepared.

It’s all very efficient.

Mulder has time to wonder whether Scully knows the prisoners who are about to be executed, whether or not she has tried and failed to arrange for their safe passage, whether she knows they’ve been caught. And then they’re brought out, clothing torn, hands bound, shivering in the bitter cold, and he doesn’t have to wonder anymore. It would appear that Marguerite Scully’s Sunday dinner guests were perfectly within their rights to be terrified of Mulder.

Before him stand Albert, Sophie, and Helene Marchand. Only little Christine is missing.

The horrified gasp is half out of Mulder’s mouth before he can stifle it, and Skinner turns to look at him, frowning. He stares hard at Mulder with something like warning in his eyes, before turning to face front again. Oberst Spender is standing in front of them now, his son at his side. He congratulates the night watch on their capture, recites the dangers the Jewish people pose to the Fatherland and to good, upstanding people everywhere, and quotes extensively from Hitler. Or, at least, Mulder thinks that’s what he does, because that’s what he’s done at every execution Mulder has seen since the war began. He’s not listening, though, because Helene Marchand, whose eyes have been roving over the crowd before her in absolute terror, has recognized him.

Her frightened blue eyes lock on his, beseeching, pleading with him, begging him wordlessly to do something, to stop this, to spirit her away to safety… but he does nothing. There is nothing he can do. The girl sobs, once, a horrible, tearing sound that claws its way deep into him, so that Mulder knows he’ll be hearing it in his nightmares for the rest of his life. Then Spender steps back, his son barks out an order, the guns fire, and as the girl’s eyes go wide, it’s as though ten years haven’t passed at all, and it’s Samantha’s blue eyes he’s looking into, Samantha’s eyes that are glazing over, closing, closing, as the girl and her parents fall.

There’s a silence throughout the assembled men; then, someone whoops, and there’s a smattering of nervous laughter. Mulder suddenly feels a hot swoop of nausea in the pit of his stomach, and he knows he needs to get away, immediately, but his feet are frozen in place. Just as he thinks he’s going to be sick right here, now, in front of the entire company, he feels a hand at his elbow, forcefully guiding him away.

“Let’s go, Mulder,” says Skinner’s voice in his ear.

“Where?” asks Mulder, moving his mouth as little as possible, not trusting himself to keep from vomiting.

“You know where,” says Skinner shortly.

———-

Scully answers Skinner’s knock before Mulder thinks to mention that he has a key. She takes one look at Mulder, whose face is an alarming shade of green, and steps back, granting them entrance.

“It’s over?” she asks Skinner, and he nods shortly. A look of terrible sadness passes over her face, and she closes her eyes for a moment. Then she takes Mulder’s arm, her eyes full of compassion, and leads him back towards the kitchen. “Come on, Mulder,” she says. “Let’s go upstairs.” Mulder nods numbly and follows her up to her apartment, Skinner behind them. She brings him to the sofa, and he sits next to her, just like he has every night for a week. Skinner takes an armchair next to them. The three sit in silence, not looking at one another. Scully holds Mulder’s hand, rubbing her thumb gently across his knuckles.

“I thought you said he was your mother’s hired hand,” Mulder says finally.

“He was,” says Scully. “We obtained forged identity papers for the entire family and arranged for them to live on the farm. We don’t know how their true identity was discovered.”

“Where’s the youngest daughter? Christine?” asks Mulder, not sure he wants to know the answer.

“We were able to hide her,” says Skinner. “We had very little warning, but we managed that much. She’s on her way to safety now.” Mulder feels his stomach unclench very slightly, but then the full meaning of Skinner’s words settles on him.

“We, Sir?” Skinner nods. And then Mulder remembers something from the very first time he and Scully spoke: Skinner had already known that Scully spoke German, had addressed her as though they had spoken many times before. Which, it turns out, they had. “You’re with them.” It’s a statement, not a question, but Skinner still answers.

“I am.”

“Why didn’t you stop it today, then?” Mulder asks.

“By that point, Mulder, there was nothing I could do, not without giving myself away. And there are people still in hiding who are counting on me to help them. All I can do is try to keep things from getting as far as they did this morning… but once it gets to that point, it’s out of my hands.” He looks hard at Mulder. “And out of yours, too. If you and I tried to intervene today, they would have shot us, and then shot that family anyway.”

“You don’t know that,” says Mulder weakly.

“I do,” says Skinner, “because I’ve seen it happen before. It doesn’t sound gallant or honorable, I know, but that’s how it is. If you want to help, there are ways, but an ill-conceived one-man suicide charge is not one of them.” He stands. “I need to get back. Mulder, you’re sick and excused from duties today, understand?” Mulder nods, unwilling to fight Skinner on this. The last thing he wants is to spend the day shoulder-to-shoulder with the men that watched that little girl die and then laughed about it.

“I’ll see you out,” says Scully, standing. She puts a comforting hand on Mulder’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back, all right?” He nods, and she strokes his cheek and goes downstairs. When she returns, she takes Mulder’s hand and pulls him up from the sofa. “I want you to lie down for a bit,” she says, leading him to her bedroom and settling him on her bed. He expects her to leave him to rest, but instead, she lies down beside him, cradling his head to her chest. He wraps his arms around her and closes his eyes, listening to the steady beat of her heart.

“Mulder,” she says finally, stroking his hair, “I know you’ve seen more than a few executions. Skinner says you’ve always been stoic before. What happened this time?” He says nothing, but the words are climbing up his throat, constricting it, threatening to choke him. “Is it because you’d met them before? Had dinner with them?” He tries to take a deep breath and discovers he cannot. “Mulder?” He has to speak or he’ll drown.

“It was the girl,” he says. “Helene. She saw me. She-” His arms around her tighten. “She recognized me. She was looking at me like she was begging me to save her… and I didn’t. I just stood there.” She holds him tighter. “And… she looked so much like Samantha, Scully. Her eyes… it was like I was looking at Samantha, the moment before-” He cuts himself off. This, he cannot speak of, has never spoken of, but he wants desperately to speak of it to her, to release the horror from where it’s been poisoning him for ten years.

“Mulder,” says Scully gently, “how did your sister die?” The part of Mulder’s mind that has fought to keep this under lock and key for so long is tired, and Scully’s presence is so soothing…. She loves him, he is sure of it, it shows through her eyes every time she looks at him, bleeds through her fingers every time she touches him. He is safe in her arms. He doesn’t need to have any secrets from her.

He opens his mouth and begins the story.

————–

It was February 1934, and the sky was clear after three days of snow. Mulder and Samantha had walked to a park down the street from their house to meet Mulder’s friend Rolf. He and Mulder had met at school the previous year, when Rolf’s family had moved to Berlin, and the two young men had become fast friends. Rolf had also recently, unbeknownst to Mulder’s parents, become Samantha’s boyfriend, a fact that both annoyed and amused Mulder, depending on the day (and on how disgustingly the two of them were behaving).

Samantha Mulder at fifteen was headstrong and opinionated, passionate about her beliefs, and vocally critical of Hitler and his policies in a way that both embarrassed and frightened their parents. Mulder, ever the rebellious pot-stirrer, had encouraged her endlessly, enjoying his parents’ shock whenever Samantha eloquently expressed her views during one of their many dinner parties.

A casual onlooker would have assumed that Samantha said these things just to be contrary, to defy her parents like any normal teenager, but Mulder knew her better than that. Samantha was a deeply empathetic person who could not stand to see people wronged, and was driven to real fury whenever she witnessed any act of deliberate cruelty. She did not buy for one moment that any single ethnic or political group could be blamed for all of Germany’s woes, and she was not at all afraid to engage those who did in heated debate. Mulder introduced her to Rolf, who was of like mind and was also frightening his own parents out of their minds with his political ranting. He often joked that if Samantha and Rolf got arrested, at least they’d be together.

The three teenagers walked along the freshly-shoveled paths of the park, occasionally throwing snowballs, but mostly talking. Rolf and Mulder were both deciding where to go to school the following year, and Mulder was leaning towards Oxford, but Samantha hated the idea of him living so far away. She was just launching, for the third time that week, into her well-rehearsed list of reasons why her big brother should go to school closer to home, when a sudden loud _crack_ rent the air, and Rolf crumpled to the ground. Samantha screamed and Mulder’s head snapped around, looking for the source, when there was a second _crack_ , and when he turned back, a red flower was blooming across Samantha’s chest, and she was falling, her blue eyes locked on her brother’s, begging him mutely to do something, anything, to save her.

She was dead before she hit the ground.

Mulder’s mother found them there shortly after. When her children did not show up for lunch, she followed the sound of approaching sirens to the park, where she discovered her son holding his sister’s dead body in his arms, sobbing wildly, while a policeman struggled to pull him away.

Mulder’s mother crawled inside a bottle that day and never came out.

Mulder, by contrast, crawled inside himself. He shut out everyone, refusing to so much as say his sister’s name, much less discuss her death. He was too much in shock to give a statement to the police that day… not, as it turned out, that they would have done anything anyway.

In the weeks following Samantha’s death, it came to light that Rolf had been involved in an underground network of propagandists who were working to discredit Hitler. Rolf had been writing articles for a subversive newspaper, and Samantha, eager to help in any way she could, had been delivering them to secret drop-off points all over town. The double murder was never investigated; it was merely forgotten about, but Mulder was certain, beyond any doubt, that Rolf and his sister had been killed as punishment for speaking out.

Whether because Mulder had always encouraged Samantha’s rebellious nature, or because he had introduced her to Rolf, or even simply because the walk in the park that day had been his idea, Mulder’s parents, though they never came right out and said it, blamed him for his sister’s death. To confirm it would have been to talk about it, which they certainly did not do, but the mute reproach in his mother’s eyes, his father’s determined avoidance of him, made it perfectly clear that they held him responsible. Mulder still does not understand why his mother wanted him to come home so badly when he finished at Oxford. The best hypothesis he’s been able to form, six years later, is that if she could not escape the house of misery in which she was trapped by marriage, then she didn’t want him to escape, either. She would rather make sure he was under her thumb, suffering as she felt he should.

And he has suffered. There is no doubt about that.

———–

When Mulder finishes speaking, Scully is silent. Tears are running down his face, and she must be able to feel them soaking into her shirt, but she says nothing, only holds him. After awhile, she moves down a bit, shifting so that they’re lying face to face. She draws his chin up gently with her fingers, making him look her in the eye, and she wipes the tears from his cheeks.

“Mulder,” she whispers, “it wasn’t your fault. Not today, and not ten years ago. The fault lies with the men who pulled the trigger, with the men who ordered them to do it, with the men who put the idea in their heads.”

“I encouraged her, Scully,” he argues. “I pushed her to say what she thought. I should have known it was dangerous.”

“That’s what big brothers do, Mulder,” she says. “They push their sister’s buttons. They try to get them in trouble with their parents. Believe me, I have an older brother, I know. You never meant to put her in any danger. You introduced her to your friend out of kindness, because you thought they would like each other.” She strokes his cheek with infinite tenderness, and the love in her eyes makes him want to cry all over again. “Nothing you did was meant to hurt your sister. Nothing you did should have hurt her, if the men in charge of your country were anything resembling reasonable. It wasn’t your fault, Mulder. You couldn’t have known.” She kisses him, holds him close, strokes his hair. And as he realizes that she means it, that she truly believes what she’s saying, that she doesn’t think any less of him, he is filled with such a depth of love for her that he can’t help but hold her as close as possible. She buries her face in his neck, and he can feel her smiling against him.

“You know, I’ve been dreaming of having you in my bed for weeks,” she says, chuckling. “Just… not quite like this.” He can’t help but smile at that.

“For weeks, huh?” he says. “I’m that irresistible?”

“You have no idea,” she says, and she kisses him again. But after a moment, she grows serious. “I’m going to need to go downstairs and open the cafe soon. I want you to stay up here and rest, all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” he protests, but she shakes her head.

“You didn’t sleep at all last night, I can tell. You look completely exhausted. Stay up here, sleep if you can, and just try and relax if you can’t. And… Mulder?”

“Yes, Scully?”

“I want you to think about what Skinner told you, all right?”

“Which part?”

“That if you want to help, there are ways. There are things you could do, Mulder, that could help stop what happened this morning from happening again. I want you to think about it and decide if that’s something you’re interested in.” He flashes back to the conversation with Skinner, the revelation that his captain has been going behind Spender’s back, trying to subvert his will at every turn. He thinks of how proud this makes him to know the man, to count him as a friend. And he thinks further back, to what Scully said to him last night.

“I can’t stand by and allow innocent people to suffer when I have the power to help them, Mulder. I don’t know how to do that. It’s just not who I am. And I don’t think it’s who you are, either.”

He’s not sure that he really is the man Scully thinks he is, but he does know he’d like very much to be. He has to try. He meets Scully’s eye… and at last, he nods.

“Tell me what to do.”


	6. Chapter 6

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE  
LATE JANUARY 1944

It’s amazing, Mulder thinks, as the days pass, how much good a little activism can do for the soul.

It’s not as though he’s doing anything particularly exciting, really. In a small town like this one, aiding the Resistance is less clandestine missions in the middle of the night, less sabotaging railroad tracks and stealing supplies, and more carrying notes and delivering odds and ends. Since the morning weeks ago when he made his decision to help and placed himself at Scully’s disposal, he has been doing whatever she asks without question, understanding that giving out too much information can be dangerous.

Mulder’s main task, thus far, has been to deliver messages between Scully and Hauptmann Skinner. Scully cannot enter the encampment unaccompanied, and it would look suspicious if she were to frequently stop at the gate and ask to speak with Mulder’s captain. Likewise, Skinner could easily draw the attention of the wrong people if he is seen speaking with Scully too often. Mulder, by contrast, as a soldier under Skinner’s command, is free to seek him out whenever he wishes without arousing suspicion. And since Mulder’s friendship with Scully is common knowledge by now, no one thinks twice about seeing them talking together.

Sometimes, Mulder is sent to the pharmacy to replenish the stocks of medicines Scully needs to have on hand in case an injured airman or sick refugee is sent to her apartment to receive care. The pharmacist has made some comments about the frequency of her visits that reveal that he is clearly suspicious, and the excuse that the medicines are for her mother has been wearing a bit thin… but this is one case where the standard reaction to Mulder’s German uniform comes in handy. The pharmacist is too frightened of him to ever ask him why he’s obtaining medicine there, and not from the medic at camp, or to question why he’s getting so much of it.

By far, the most dangerous thing Scully has asked him to do is to steal pieces of German uniforms. It has to be done piecemeal- a sock one day, a pair of pants the next, a jacket a few days later- in order not to arouse suspicion, and often, it involves sneaking into tents that aren’t his while their occupants are busy elsewhere. It’s not something he’ll easily be able to explain away if he’s caught. Scully sends the uniforms out to the various groups she works with, and they use them to disguise refugees and Allied soldiers, to make them easier to relocate after dark, when the curfew is in effect and any man on the streets in civilian clothing is likely to be detained.

And, of course, he provides information. Skinner already does this, it’s true, and has been doing it for some time, but occasionally, Mulder hears things to which Skinner is not privy. Jeffrey Spender is at his father’s side day and night and hears more than Skinner ever will, and with the right amount of flattery, the right combination of well-chosen words, Mulder is often able to goad Spender into showing off and revealing things his father would definitely prefer he didn’t. Of course, this means Mulder has had to voluntarily seek out Spender’s company, something he has never done in his life, but Scully has asked him to do it, and so he does. He’s learning, day by day, that he cannot refuse her anything. It’s possible that this realization should bother him, but it doesn’t. At all.

Amidst all of this, Mulder finds himself missing his sister even more than normal. He wishes he could tell her that he understands now, that he now knows the way that doing something to fight back against injustice can take away the feeling of powerlessness, the hopelessness that comes from living under the rule of cruel and evil men.

“I feel like I have a sense of purpose again,” he confesses to Scully one evening, as they stand at the sink together, washing and drying dishes. It’s almost closing time, and the service bell by the register is interrupting them less and less. “I can’t remember the last time I felt like my life truly had any meaning, like I was really making a difference.” He sighs and hands Scully the mug he’s just washed, and she dries it. “But every now and then, I remember that I’m not doing that much, just carrying notes and buying antibiotics.”

“You don’t think that’s doing much?” asks Scully, raising an eyebrow at him.

“It’s definitely not the heart-pounding thrill I expected,” he admits.

“And what would your commander do, if he caught you?” she asks. “What would happen if you were found carrying a message from me to Hauptmann Skinner? Or if you were caught buying antibiotics and providing them to me, knowing they would be used to treat Germany’s enemies?” She looks up at him expectantly.

“I would be shot for treason,” he admits.

“Yes, you would,” she says. “It’s incredibly dangerous, what you’re doing. I don’t ever want you to forget that, not for one second.” Out at the register, a patron rings the service bell, and Scully puts down the dish towel. She stretches up and kisses his cheek. “Because I certainly won’t forget it.”

The downside of his involvement, of course, is that he is now sometimes obliged to spend his free time with people who aren’t Scully. He makes an effort to attend card games with Jeffrey Spender, and to take at least some of his meals with him in the mess tent. The more other officers are around, the easier it becomes to get Spender to show off, and the more likely he is to spout off about what the latest scandal is amongst the officers, what rumors are flying around about the regiments stationed in nearby towns, what exercises are being planned for the coming spring. Mulder has never been more grateful for his eidetic memory- he can sit back and absorb everything Spender says, and then repeat it all back to Scully, without having to write anything down. She, in turn, can get it to her various contacts from the different Resistance movements. Mulder hasn’t met any of her contacts; he’s not allowed to be in the cafe when she meets with them. They’re glad for the information, she’s told him, but they have themselves and their families to protect, and they’re understandably not comfortable with a German officer knowing their identities, regardless of his loyalties. Because of the curfew, though, they mostly visit the cafe in daylight hours, so Mulder never crosses paths with them, and they don’t cut into his time with Scully… at least, not yet.

———–

One Saturday evening, Mulder is putting Scully’s dry dishes away while Scully locks up the cafe. She comes into the kitchen, hangs up her apron, and leans against the counter for a long moment, watching him, smiling slightly. He quirks an eyebrow at her.

“What? he asks. "What’s that look for?”

“I spoke to my mother this morning,” she says. “I arranged for a farm hand to help her with Sunday morning’s chores again.” Mulder turns slowly to face her.

“Oh?”

“Mm-hmm.” She nods. “And I told her I’ve been tired….” She grins wickedly. “And not to expect me at mass tomorrow morning.” Now Mulder’s grinning, too.

“And what did you have planned?” he asks. She steps closer to him, rising up on tiptoe and leaning against his chest.

“Why don’t we go upstairs,” Scully whispers, in a throaty voice that makes his knees go weak, “and maybe you’ll find out?” She lowers herself back down on her heels and begins to walk around him to the stairs… but before she can take two steps, Mulder grabs her arm, turning her to face him, and kisses her deeply. He bends down and lifts her up, one arm underneath her and one around her back, and she gives a startled little yelp. He’s about to apologize, to put her down, but she grabs his head and kisses him again, wrapping her legs tightly around his waist. She plunges her tongue into his mouth, scratches at the back of his head with her fingernails, grinds her sweet hips against him. It’s all too much, the feel of her mouth, the sensation of her pressed against him, and he can feel her heat all the way through her skirt and through his pants and he needs to be there now or he’s going to-

He breaks the kiss. “Scully,” he moans, “if you don’t stop that, we’re never going to make it upstairs.” She kisses along his jawline.

“Going upstairs was just a suggestion, Mulder,” she says. “You can feel free to ignore it, if you’d like.” She draws back and looks at him, a teasing smile lingering at the corners of her kiss-swollen lips, something like a dare in her wide blue eyes. Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips… and that’s all it takes for the last of Mulder’s already-fragile self-control to flee at top speed. He crosses the room in two steps, Scully in his arms, and presses her into the wall by the stairs, kissing her so hard she hits her head on the wall behind her. She doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t even pause in her kiss, only lets out a deep, feral moan of longing that Mulder feels reverberating in his very core. He reaches down to unbuckle his pants, but Scully’s hands get there first, and she has his belt and fly undone so quickly, he knows she must have done this before. He doesn’t care, isn’t upset, is, honestly, almost glad, because he doesn’t think he has it in him to be slow and gentle this first time.

With a decisive shove, she sends his pants sliding to the floor, the buckle clinking as it hits the tile. As Scully lifts her skirt and adjusts it to grant him access, he pulls her blouse out from her waistband with the hand not holding her to the wall, slipping his fingers up underneath the hem to caress the soft, smooth skin of her stomach, then moving higher to caress her breasts through her camisole. Scully has her skirt where she needs it, and she now turns her attention to him, reaching into the front of his boxer shorts and taking him in her hands. At the first touch of her warm fingers, his breath stutters and he pauses in his kiss, struggling to keep control as she takes him in her hand and draws him out of the slit in his boxers. He presses closer to her, and she positions him at her entrance, guiding the tip of his penis into her and he’s about to make a teasing comment about how she must be a minimalist when it comes to undergarments, but then she takes his hip and pulls him the rest of the way into her and oh, he can’t speak, he can’t think, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to speak again. Her wet heat envelops him fully, and there’s that moan again, her voice rich and deep. For a moment he’s completely still, overwhelmed by sensation, and he leans forward and rests his forehead against hers, breathing with her until he feels calm enough to start to move.

He does his level best, at first, to go slowly, to be gentle, but one look at her face tells him that that’s not what she wants, and so he speeds up. She lets out a whimpering gasp with each thrust, her hands clawing at his back, squeezing his buttocks, trying to pull him in deeper. She kisses along his neck and bites at his earlobe.

“Harder,” she hisses into his ear, and he’s only too happy to comply. He uses his arms to cushion her against the wall, palming the back of her skull to keep her from banging her head again, and begins slamming in and out of her. She cries out and for a moment he thinks he’s hurting her, but no, she’s climaxing, calling out his name, and he feels her clenching and spasming around him and that’s all it takes to send him hurtling over the edge after her, coming so hard that all the strength drains from his legs and he sinks to his knees on the floor, Scully still straddling him as they ride out the aftershocks together. He clutches her against him, unwilling to let her go even as he slips out of her, and she rests hear head on his shoulder, planting gentle, lazy kisses up and down the side of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Mulder says softly, when he finally has his breath back. “This wasn’t how I intended this to be.”

“Mulder, don’t you dare apologize,” says Scully. “I don’t see how anything could possible have been better than that. That was incredible.” He buries his face in her hair and smiles. He’s covered in sweat, they both are, and his knees are hurting and he’s about to suggest they make a second attempt at going upstairs so they can get more comfortable, when a sudden, forceful pounding at the back door sends both of them flying apart and scrambling to their feet. Mulder yanks his pants up, buckling them hurriedly. He goes to the counter near the door to the front of the cafe, where he placed his sidearm, still in its holster, earlier in the evening. He draws the pistol.

“Are you expecting anyone?” he whispers to Scully, who shakes her head, her eyes wide. It can’t be Skinner; he would go to the front door, not sneak around the back. The unknown visitor knocks a second time.

“Scully,” shouts a male voice, “open up, it’s us!” Scully must recognize the voice, because she looks relieved, if still confused, and Mulder is startled to find the voice familiar to him, as well, though he can’t place it.

“It’s all right,” says Scully. “They’re some of my contacts, they’re safe. I wasn’t expecting them tonight, though.” She opens the door… and when she steps back to admit the three men on the other side, Mulder feels as though he’s taken a sudden and jarring trip ten years into the past.

They’re every bit the odd and mismatched trio Mulder knew before- Frohike, short and dark, his hair beginning to thin out on top; Langly, long and skinny with an untidy thatch of blond tangles; and Byers, tall and trim and twice as neat as the other two put together. The three of them are all the way into the kitchen, the door shut behind them, before they realize Scully is not alone.

Watching three men do a simultaneous double-take is the most comical thing Mulder has seen in a long time.

“Mulder?” Frohike’s eyes are enormous behind his glasses. “What are you doing here?” Scully’s mouth dropped open.

“You know each other?” Scully asks. “How?”

“Oxford,” says Mulder, lowering his weapon and finding his voice at last. “They were two years ahead of me. Frohike sort of adopted me as a long-lost little brother.” Unlike Langly and Byers, who were both Englishmen, Frohike was Dutch, and when he’d discovered Mulder’s great-great-grandparents had also been from the Netherlands, he had delightedly declared Mulder an honorary Dutchman, in spite of not speaking a word of the language.

“We used to print a newspaper,” said Langly, “and Mulder helped us distribute it sometimes.” Mulder snorted.

“I don’t know if you could call it a newspaper,” he said. “It was a monthly five pages of nonsense refuting everything the actual school paper printed.”

“Hey, somebody had to call the Cherwell out for printing nonstop lies,” protests Frohike. Scully is looking more amused by the moment.

“Mulder, you helped produce an underground newspaper?” she asks, grinning.

“‘Produce’ is overstating things a bit,” says Mulder. “All I did was occasionally drop a stack of them in the common room when nobody was paying attention, in exchange for Frohike buying me drinks at the pub later that night.”

“Mulder is your new source in the German army?” asks Byers, speaking for the first time.

“That’s right,” says Scully. Frohike looks thrilled.

“Good man,” he says, thumping Mulder as high up on his back as he can reach. “Always knew you were a troublemaker at heart. We taught you well.”

“I’m assuming you’re with Dutch-Paris, then?” asks Mulder, and Frohike nods proudly.

“For the past two years,” he says. “Trust the Dutch to do what the French can’t. No offense intended, of course,” he says to Scully, who rolls her eyes.

“As much as I hate to break up the reunion,” says Scully, “I need to know: what are you three doing here? Has something happened?”

“We’ve got a group hiding off of the road a few miles north of town,” says Byers. “We know it’s risky, breaking curfew, but we were careful, and we need to move fast. It’s cold and we need to get the little ones someplace warm. We came to find out if it’s safe to bring them to your mother’s for a few days, and we need you to help us arrange transportation for them.”

“How many?” asks Scully. “And where are you taking them next?”

“A mother and three children. We only need to get them to Limoges,” says Langly. “Our contact there is making identification papers for them, and then we’re getting them on a train south. We had a truck arranged already, but they never showed up at the last meeting point.” Scully nods.

“Take them to my mother’s and put them in the barn,” she says. “Wait until daylight to knock on my mother’s door. She’ll feed them and give them a room. I’ll make the arrangements first thing in the morning and send word to my mother as soon as everything is set up.” She turns to Mulder. “I’m sorry, Mulder, but it looks like I’m going to need to go to mass tomorrow morning after all,” she says apologetically.

“Why would he care about that?” asks Langly blankly, and Byers gives him a not-so-subtle elbow in the ribs. “What?” He looks at Mulder, then at Scully… and Mulder can see it slowly sinking in: his unbuttoned shirt, Scully’s untucked blouse and rumpled skirt, her hair escaping from the kerchief that sits askew on her head, their flushed faces. Langly breaking into a slow smile. “You dog,” he says appreciatively.

“All right, time to go,” says Scully firmly, and she shoves Langly towards the door. Frohike follows, shaking his head, and Byers looks apologetic.

“As you can see, he’s about as mature as he was the last time you saw him,” he says. “I’ve done what I can, but when you’re already working with damaged raw materials….” He shrugs, and Mulder laughs.

“I take it I’ll be seeing the three of you again?”

“Count on it,” says Frohike. He bows to Scully. “Mademoiselle Scully, a pleasure, as always.” She rolls her eyes and shoves him out of the door, shutting it and locking it after them, leaning her back against it with a sigh.

“Of course you know each other,” she says. “They told me they met at Oxford and it never even crossed my mind that they might have been there at the same time as you.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t mean to announce our relationship to them like that. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” says Mulder, crossing to her and taking her in his arms. “You think I’m anything other than proud to call a woman like you my own?” She smiles up at him.

“Is that what I am?” she asks. “Your own?”

“I’d like to think so,” he says, leaning his forehead against hers, “but ultimately, I think you get the final say.”

“You know what my answer is,” she says softly. “I’m yours. Absolutely and completely.” She kisses him, long and lingering, and he feels himself begin to stir again. “And I think it’s time for you to take me upstairs now.”

———

It’s slower this time, sweeter, closer to what he thought their first time together would be. On the brass bed in her room, he takes his time unbuttoning her blouse and easing it off her shoulders, exposing pale white collarbones that he immediately showers with kisses. She lifts her camisole over her head herself, and he bends his head to her perfect breasts, taking one dusky rose nipple in his mouth and the other in his fingers. She gasps, arches into him, and he catalogues each reaction, every sound of pleasure she makes, learning what she likes and what she doesn’t. He’s entranced by the smoothness of her skin, the dusting of freckles over her shoulders, the tight white plane of her belly. She unfastens her skirt and he draws it down, then runs his hands back up her slender legs. She sits up suddenly.

“If I’m going to be naked, you are, too,” she insists, and helps him shrug off his uniform jacket. He peels off his undershirt, and she looks him appreciatively, her eyes roaming over his broad chest, the muscles of his stomach. She reaches out and unbuckles his pants just as quickly as she did downstairs.

“You’re awfully adept at that,” he says, grinning, and she smiles- shyly, this time.

“I was nervous you’d be upset that you weren’t my first,” she confesses. He shakes his head and cups her cheek with his hand.

“Scully,” he says gently, “who you’ve been with and what you’ve done before we met, that’s your business. I don’t care. All I care about is that you’re here with me now.” He meets her eyes, and even though he wasn’t planning on it, he wants to tell her. Now. “Scully,” he says, “I love you.” She looks down and blushes a brilliant scarlet across her face and chest.

“My mother told me never to believe anything a man tells you with his clothes off,” she says.

“Hey, I’ve still got my pants on, haven’t I?” he quips. “So I’m at least half-dressed.”

“Does that mean it’s only half-true?” she asks.

“No, Scully,” he says, seriously now. “It’s completely true. I’m in love with you. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before in my life.”

“Neither have I,” she whispers, so softly that for a moment he thinks he might have imagined her saying it. His face breaks out into a grin.

“Really?” She nods, still looking down. He reaches out a hand and takes her by the chin, gently making her look up. Her eyes are swimming with tears.

“I love you too, Mulder,” she says tremulously, and now his eyes are watering, as well. Not just because the woman of his dreams loves him, but because he can’t remember the last time someone said those words to him. His heart swells with emotion and he reaches out, clasping her to him, wrapping himself around her.

The rest of their clothing falls away quickly after that, and soon she’s lying on her back and he’s above her, poised to enter her again. Their joining is slow and gentle- she is sore and bruised from the enthusiasm of their first coupling- but all the more emotional for that. He wants to cry from the beauty of it, the sense of overwhelming completeness he’s never known before. He wants it to go on forever. His movements are soft and deliberate for as long as he can hang onto control, and when he feels it slipping away from him, she whispers Go in his ear and he’s off, rhythm lost, hearing her gasp and feeling her clench around him for the second time tonight, and he’s right there with her, lost in the beauty of her face at her climax. They’re dozing off in one another’s arms almost before their hearts have slowed to normal, Mulder lying behind Scully, framing her body with his, feeling, for once in his life, as though nothing could possibly go wrong.


	7. Chapter 7

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE  
FEBRUARY 1944

Mulder has, thus far in his life, been a complete stranger to the idea of real contentment.

He had known happiness after a fashion, it’s true, when Samantha was alive, but his childhood had never been exactly idyllic. His father had never been around much, and when he was around, he had generally been cold and distant. His mother had been a deeply unhappy woman, prone to seeking solace in bottles of pills and, whenever her prescriptions ran out, in bottles of whiskey and gin. Mulder’s parents had fought constantly, viciously, drowning in their hatred for one another, the conflict spilling over and threatening to drown their children along with them. Mulder had done his best to protect his little sister, to shield her from the worst of it. He had believed, at times when his parents were at their unhappiest, fighting their loudest, that nothing could be worse than the constant shouting.

He learned, after Samantha died, that he had been wrong.

The silence had been infinitely worse.

Oxford University had been a safe haven, a welcome respite of friendly noise. As a German attending school in a country that had been at war with Germany less than twenty years earlier, Mulder had been treated with reserve and with caution by most of his classmates, but there had been a few who had warmed to him. Frohike, Langly, and Byers had been the friendliest by far, but there had been a handful of others, as well, enough that he was generally able to find someone to go to the pub with on any given evening. There had been a few girls, as well- none that he had been serious about, but still, he’d been able to get a date when he wanted one, and he’d managed to divest himself of his virginity.

He hadn’t returned to Berlin at all for the duration of his time at Oxford, and he had fully intended to remain in England when his studies had concluded. Frohike had also chosen, after his graduation two years earlier, to stay, and had gotten a flat in London. He had invited Mulder to move in, and it had seemed like a good place to stay while he figured out what he wanted to do next. He had moved in, gotten a job waiting tables to cover his share of the rent, and had set about researching the options before him. He had been there less than a year, however, before the letter had arrived from his mother, summoning him home. She had written that she and his father missed him, that it had been far too long since they had seen him, that it was time for him to come home so that they could be a family again. Mulder had allowed himself to hope that, perhaps, his long absence and his stellar performance at Oxford had improved his parents’ opinion of him. He had packed his things, bidden Frohike, Langly, and Byers farewell, and had travelled back to Berlin… to find that his parents thought just as little of him as they ever had.

No, happiness and contentment have not been a large part of Mulder’s life thus far. Which explains, he supposes, why he is so incredibly and constantly giddy these days, in spite of his dire surroundings. First love will do that to a person.

“You need to stop looking at me like that when there are still customers in the cafe, Mulder,” she tells him one Saturday in mid-February, as she locks up the cafe for the night. “Your face is practically shouting to the entire German army that we’re lovers.”

“Lovers?” he repeats, smiling as he rises from his seat at his usual table and crosses to her. “I like that. Lovers.” He slides his arms around her narrow waist, untying her apron for her, and bends to kiss her neck.

“Mulder!” She squirms away, but she’s smiling. “Not in front of the windows, someone could see!”

“You think there’s anyone out there who doesn’t know something’s going on between us, Scully?” he asks, following her as she walks into the kitchen. “You don’t want to know the kinds of things I get asked about you whenever I’m at the camp.”

“They know you share my bed sometimes, yes,” Scully says, “but they don’t know it’s anything more than the same thing half the men in your regiment get up to with any woman who’s willing.”

“Or desperate,” counters Mulder, following her up the stairs. “Most of them are only doing it because the soldiers are offering them food and money. I don’t want them thinking that of you, Scully.” Scully sighs and stops in the darkened stairwell, turning to face him. Even standing on the step above him, she’s still several inches shorter.

“Mulder,” she says gently, “we need them to think that of me. In fact, it’s exactly the sort of rumor I’ve asked Hauptmann Skinner to spread.” Mulder freezes.

“What?”

“I want them to think you’re paying for food and supplies for the cafe,” she says. “That’s the sort of relationship people like your commander can understand you having with me. It gives you power over me, leaves me at your mercy.”

“I don’t want power over you, Scully,” Mulder says. “And doesn’t it bother you? To be seen like that?” She winds her arms around his neck and shakes her head.

“I don’t care what any of them think, Mulder,” she says. “I have no respect for any of them and I’m not wasting a single second worrying about their opinions of me. Men like that, who can see to it that a woman and her family starve, and then look down on her for doing what she has to in order to keep them alive?” She leans her forehead against his. “They can’t know the truth. At best, they’ll be suspicious and your friend Spender will never tell you anything his father says again. At worst, they could accuse you of treason. You know the truth, Mulder, and that’s all I care about.”

She takes his hand and leads him the rest of the way upstairs and into her bedroom. They don’t make love every night they’re together- it’s usually on Saturdays, when he can stay later and they’re not rushed- but when they do, it never fails to be sublime. They have made an intense study of one another’s bodies over the past few weeks, each learning how the other likes to be touched, to be held. She is a confident, giving, and assertive lover, always paying attention to what he wants, never shy about asking for what she wants in return. She has insisted he wear a condom every time, scolding both of them equally for completely forgetting one during their frantic first coupling, but as much as he’s heard soldiers complaining about them, he hasn’t found that they take away from the experience at all. Or maybe that’s just because sex with Scully is better than sex with anyone else could ever possibly be? He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t plan on finding out. Scully is the only woman he ever wants to make love to again, for the rest of his life.

Sometimes, like tonight, what comes after is almost as wonderful. They still talk, nearly as much as they did before… the main difference is that now, they tend to talk in her bedroom, entwined naked under her feather duvet, warm light from the fireplace flickering over their faces. Tonight, she’s reading aloud to him from Moby Dick as he rests his head in her naked lap. He’s been trying, for the past half hour, to turn his face inward, into her, but she keeps forcing his head back, making him look upwards. He gives up, eventually, at least in part because from down here, he has a spectacular view of her breasts. He relaxes and admires them, the sound of her voice washing over him, and allows his mind to wander.

Thinking about tonight, about the things she had been doing to him a scant half-hour ago, the question that’s been knocking around at the back of his mind rises to his lips yet again. He wonders: will she be offended if he asks? Will she want to know the same of him? He decides to risk it.

“Scully?” She stops reading and looks down at him. “Can I ask you something?” She nods. “How many….” No, that sounds wrong. “How did you learn-”

“You want to know how many men I’ve been with before you,” she says, her expression unreadable. He nods sheepishly. “I thought you said it didn’t matter to you?”

“It doesn’t,” he says quickly. “I’m just… I’m just curious, that’s all.” She studies him intently, and he sits up, wrapping his arms around her, trying to reassure her. “Let’s face it, Scully: you know your way around my body better than I do. I was just wondering if that’s the sort of thing they teach in medical school these days.” She laughs and leans into him, relaxing.

“I suppose you could say I did learn it at medical school, after a fashion,” she concedes. “To answer your question… I was with one man before you.” He raises his eyebrows. “It was for over a year though. He was one of my instructors.” Mulder swallows. This is not exactly what he had expected.

“A year?” She nods. “Who ended it?”

“I did,” she says. “He wanted us to get married… and he insisted that if we did, I would have to give up school, give up on becoming a doctor. He said it was all right for unmarried women to pursue a career, but that as his wife, my place would be in the home.” Mulder laughs. “I think you can imagine how well that idea went over with me.”

“No wonder you ended it.” He buries his nose in her hair, ruminating. He doesn’t want to care, he wants to have meant it when he told her that her past doesn’t matter to him, but he’s curious. “Did you love him, Scully?” She’s silent for a moment.

“I thought I did at the time,” she says. “But now… I think I must have been infatuated with him, maybe a little in awe of him, nothing more than that.” She sits up enough to meet his eyes. “Because this, Mulder, what I feel for you, this is love, I know it is… and what I felt for him can’t hold a candle to this.” She presses her lips to his, leaning him back to straddle him, and he knows, beyond any doubt, that she is telling the truth.

——–

Whenever possible, Sunday nights belong to Mrs. Scully, and Mulder has no problem with this arrangement at all.

He’s quite sure that Marguerite- or Maggie, as she’s asked him to call her (it’s as un-French as the name Dana is, but it’s what her husband had called her)- knows at least some of what’s going on between him and her daughter, and he’s been surprised- and gratified- to find that she seems to approve heartily. Scully has made her aware of Mulder’s decision to join the Resistance, but Maggie doesn’t talk about it at all. Likewise, Mulder never says anything about Maggie’s involvement, even though he’s well aware that three groups of fugitives have hidden on her farm in the last month alone. Such things are better left unspoken. Even though Maggie trusts her farm hands, she doesn’t expect Mulder to trust them- he doesn’t know them, after all- and so she won’t risk them overhearing something that could spell danger for Mulder.

Maggie dotes on Mulder in a way that his own mother certainly never has, and he relishes every second of it. He feels more welcome in her home than he has ever felt anywhere, save Scully’s apartment. He suspects that, if Maggie knew just how involved he and her daughter really are, she might approve of him somewhat less, but he tries not to think about that each Sunday when she greets him like a long-lost son.

This Sunday evening, Maggie has seen him off at the door, then pointedly retreated into the house to allow Scully to say goodnight to him in private. They walk to the gate together, hand-in-hand, shivering in the brisk night air, and at the gate Scully kisses him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night?” she asks, but he shakes his head.

“There’s a card game,” he says. “I don’t want to go, believe me.” She smiles.

“You have to,” she says firmly. “I’ll see you Tuesday, then, all right?” She kisses him once more, so passionately that his head is swimming for the entire walk back.

The camp is surprisingly busy for a Sunday night when Mulder arrives. Groups of men stand huddled together, whispering, and he passes several captains gathered together, discussing something with serious, anxious faces. He begins to feel nervous. Have they received new orders? Are they moving on to a new town? As Mulder nears his tent, Jeffrey Spender materializes at his shoulder, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Where have you been all afternoon?” he demands. “You’re missing all the fun.” Mulder’s stomach clenches. Nothing that Spender calls “fun” could possibly be good news.

“What’s going on?” Spender looks around, making sure no one is near enough to hear, and leans close, whispering conspiratorially in Mulder’s ear.

“A pair of Jews were caught a few miles south of here,” he says. “A father and his teenaged son. Someone from the Resistance was with them.” Now Mulder feels well and truly sick. He happens to know that only last night, a trio matching that exact description left Maggie Scully’s farm, heading in that exact direction. If they’ve been caught… if any of them talk….

“Are they being held in camp?” asks Mulder, trying to look interested, rather than terrified.

“They’re all dead,” says Spender dismissively. “But that’s not the real excitement.”

“What is, then?” asks Mulder. He thinks he may throw up. He swallows hard.

“Before he was shot, the teenager told us that he and his father had been staying right outside of town,” says Spender. “A farm somewhere, run by some French widow. My father’s putting together a raiding party right now to go out there and deal with her.” It’s a good thing Spender is looking the other way, because Mulder’s face pales and his step falters before he recovers himself.

“Are you going?” Spender wrinkles his nose.

“No,” he says, clearly disappointed. “I wanted to, though.” Mulder has an idea.

“Why don’t you go and try to talk your father into letting you?” he suggests. If Spender and his father are arguing, it could buy some time. “I’ll bet you can convince him. It’s important for you to see how these things are handled, isn’t it? So that you can learn, so you can have your own regiment one day?” Spender seems to like Mulder’s logic.

“You’re right,” he agrees. Mulder actually reaches out and gives Spender’s shoulder a push, trying not to shudder with revulsion at the contact.

“Go on, hurry,” he says. “Who knows how quickly they’ll be ready to go?” Spender takes off, and Mulder turns back to leave the camp, struggling to keep from running, from drawing attention to himself. He’s gone less than twenty paces, however, when he runs smack into Hauptmann Skinner. Skinner looks supremely relieved to see him. He grabs him by the arm, dragging him behind a tent, away from the other soldiers still milling around.

“Is Dana with her mother?” demands Skinner. Mulder nods. “You need to get out there and get her, Mulder. She can’t be there when Oberst Spender’s raiding party arrives.”

“She’ll never leave her mother,” says Mulder. “And they’ll come looking for Maggie at the cafe if we hide her there.”

“We’re not going to,” says Skinner. “I got a message to the priest who’s Dana’s contact at the church, the moment the refugees were brought into camp. Someone is going out to the farm to escort her mother to safety. I need you to get out there, get Dana, and get her back to the cafe. Do whatever you need to do to make it look like she’s been there all evening. Most of the men have been in the camp since the prisoners were captured, nobody’s going to be able to say for certain she wasn’t home all afternoon.” Mulder nods, and Skinner gives him a shove. “Go.”

Mulder manages to walk at a normal, steady pace through camp, but the moment he’s out of sight, he takes off sprinting faster than he’s ever run before in his life. He tears through the back streets of the town, ignoring the stitch developing in his side, and continues down the road in the direction of the farm. As he approaches it, he can see lights burning on the first floor: they have not gone to bed yet. He’s glad; he needs every possible second and he can’t waste any time waking them up. He throws open the gate, startling the chickens in the yard as he runs through them to the door. He throws it open.

“Scully!” he cries, running down the hall to the kitchen. “Maggie!” There’s a scuffle, and Scully appears in the sitting room doorway, Maggie looking over her shoulder anxiously.

“Mulder, what are you doing here?” asks Scully. “What’s going on?”

“The father and son that left here last night,” he says, breathless, leaning against the wall as his overtaxed legs threaten to give out. “They were caught, they were questioned. The son told them where he and his father stayed.” Scully’s face goes deathly pale. “They’re coming, Maggie. You need to get ready to leave. The priest is sending someone to get you to safety.”

“We have to take her to my apartment!” insists Scully, but Mulder shakes his head.

“That’s the first place they’ll look, you know they will,” says Mulder. “You’ve got to leave town, Maggie.” Scully looks ready to argue, but Maggie holds up a hand to stop her. Her face is grim, but set.

“He’s right, Dana,” she says. “You know he is.”

“Then I’m coming with you,” says Scully, but Maggie shakes her head. She takes her daughter by the shoulders.

“Dana, you need to stay,” she says, gently. “There are too many people counting on you. You need to help them.” Scully grasps at her mother’s hands desperately, and Mulder’s heart breaks for her.

“I need to help you, Maman,” she insists.

“You’ve been helping me for years, my darling,” says Maggie laying her hands on either side of her daughter’s face and kissing her forehead. “But when I leave here tonight, you’ll be helping me most by staying with Fox and keeping safe. Right now, there’s nothing to make them think you’ve been involved in any of this. We’ve been careful… that boy and his father never even saw you here, they couldn’t have told the soldiers anything about you. But when I leave here tonight, I could be caught, and if you’re with me… they’ll know. Our being together will be all the proof they need that you’re involved.” Maggie looks ready to crumple under the pain of pushing her daughter away, but still, she presses on, and Mulder knows, in that moment, exactly where Scully’s deep reserves of strength come from. “You must do this, Dana,” she says, her voice cracking. “For me.”

“Maman,” sobs Scully in anguish, throwing herself into her mother’s arms. Maggie holds her tightly, rubbing her shoulders, tears running down her own cheeks.

“I am so, so proud of the woman you’ve grown into,” she whispers to Scully. “And if your father could see you, he would be even prouder.” Scully says nothing, only clutches desperately at Maggie. Mulder is trying to figure out a gentle way to get her out of the house, when suddenly, all three of them jump in shock at the sound of pounding at the kitchen door. There’s a shout from outside.

“Scully,” yells a familiar voice, “open up, it’s us!” Mulder recognizes Frohike’s voice and relaxes. He rushes to open the door, and Frohike races in, followed closely by Byers and Langly. “Maggie, it’s time to get you out of here,” says Frohike, and Mulder realizes that, of course, they’ve met before. His three friends have been escorting fleeing Allied soldiers and refugees to her farm for months. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” says Maggie. “Just give me one moment, all right?” She turns to Scully, taking her daughter’s tear-streaked face in her hands again. “You need to go with Fox now,” she says, her voice breaking as she begins to cry in earnest. “Never forget I love you.”

“I love you too, Maman,” sobs Scully. “So much.”

“I promise you, one day, we will see each other again,” says Maggie, and she pulls Scully in for one last hug. As she releases her, she passes Scully’s hand to Mulder’s. “Take care of her, Fox,” she says, and stretches up to kiss Mulder’s cheek.

“I promise I will, Maggie,” says Mulder, his own eyes swimming. He looks to Frohike. “You’ll keep us informed? Let us know when she’s safe?”

“The moment we have her securely on her way, we’ll be back to tell you,” promises Frohike. The other two nod.

“Get moving,” says Mulder. Without waiting another moment, he puts an arm around Scully’s shaking shoulders and rushes her out the kitchen door and into the night.

Mulder takes Scully back towards town, staying off the road, listening for sounds of patrols heading out to the farm. They have to pause for a few minutes, halfway there, because Scully is sobbing too hard to continue. Mulder holds her, muffling the sounds of her tears with his shoulder, until she is composed enough to keep going. They pass no one as they sneak along side streets, running from one alley to the next, until finally, they arrive at the back door of the cafe. Scully lets them in, and they climb the stairs to her apartment without turning on any lights. By unspoken agreement, they head straight for her bedroom, and as soon as she’s closed the door behind them, Scully breaks down. She collapses in a heap on the floor, holding her head in her hands, crying so hard that Mulder isn’t sure how she’s managing to breathe. Without saying a word, he scoops her up in his arms and lays her gently on her bed, then climbs in with her, wrapping himself around her, wishing desperately that he knew what to say. He has become so accustomed to her strength, her stoicism and chin-up attitude, that to see her broken like this is frightening. He’s about to ask her what he can do to help, when downstairs, there’s a pounding on the front door to the cafe. They both sit up quickly, Scully’s face going from heartbroken to panic-stricken.

“They’re here for me,” she says.

“They’re here to see if you’ve been home all night,” Mulder counters, trying to calm her. “I saw Skinner before I came to get you; he told me to do what it takes to make them think you’ve been in your apartment all evening, that you weren’t with your mother tonight, that you don’t know she’s gone on the run.”

“What if they think I was there last night, when that man and his son were hiding there?” she asks.

“They already know you weren’t,” he reassures her. “There were soldiers in here when it was time for you to lock up the cafe, weren’t there? And it was after curfew. They know where you were last night.”

“And tonight?” she says.

“Do you trust me, Scully?” he asks. She nods, and he stands. Downstairs, someone pounds on the door again. “Then take off your blouse and get under the covers. When they come in, cover yourself with the blanket, but let them see your shoulders are bare. Let them think you’re naked.” He begins to unbutton his uniform jacket. He kicks off his boots and rips off his socks, then stands and unbuckles his belt and untucks his undershirt. She understands why he’s doing what he’s doing and whips her blouse over her head, kicking off her own boots and covering herself to the neck with her duvet.

“Won’t you get in trouble, flaunting it like this?” she asks.

“Not much,” he says. “Maybe night guard for a week again.” He bends to kiss her, as the pounding on the door reverberates up the stairs for a third time. “Don’t worry about me right now. There’s nothing, anywhere in here, that can implicate you, is there?” Scully shakes her head.

“Nothing. I never keep anything written down,” she says. He nods.

“Stay here,” he says. He turns and goes down the stairs, through the kitchen, and into the front of the cafe, turning the lights on as he goes. He tries to adopt the most casual posture he can, doing his best to convey the attitude of a man who’s just been interrupted at a delicate moment, and would like to get back to it as quickly as possible. At the cafe door, he can see Jeffrey Spender and- he nearly cries with relief- Hauptmann Skinner. Two of Spender’s cronies stand behind them, but that’s it. Spender’s father is likely still busy tearing apart the farmhouse where, Mulder knows, he will find nothing. Like her daughter, Maggie Scully has always been scrupulous about destroying evidence.

Mulder unlocks the door and leans casually against the frame. “Jeffrey, what are you doing here?” he asks. “Didn’t you go with your father?” Spender looks very surprised to see Mulder.

“No, he told me to come here and question the proprietress,” says Spender. “What are you doing here, Mulder?” Mulder gives him a shifty grin.

“It’s not obvious?” he asks, gesturing down to his disheveled uniform, his bare feet. “Why do you need to question Fraulein Scully?”

“It’s her mother who’s been implicated,” says Spender, and Mulder puts on what he hopes is a shocked expression.

“That’s who they’re arresting tonight?” he says. “You’re sure the kid got the right farm? I’ve met Madame Scully, you know; she’s not exactly the bold and daring sort.”

“We’re sure,” says Skinner, speaking for the first time, and shouldering his way past Mulder and into the cafe. “Where is she?”

“She’s, uh….” Mulder is waiting for Skinner to head to the kitchen and go upstairs, but he doesn’t. And Mulder suddenly realizes: Skinner needs to pretend he’s never been upstairs, never been inside Scully’s apartment, doesn’t know how to get there. “She’s upstairs in her bedroom,” says Mulder, pointing towards the kitchen. “I can go get her, if you want.” He catches Skinner’s eye, hoping his captain understands what he’s trying to do, coming to the door in this state, leaving Scully behind in her room. If Spender can get a glimpse of Scully in bed, not only will it make him think Scully’s been home all night, but he’ll spread it around camp, and the other soldiers- and officers- will think that, too. For the first time, Mulder agrees with Scully on this point: her reputation amongst the soldiers is far from the most important thing right now.

Skinner, blessedly, seems to understand perfectly. “That won’t be necessary,” he says shortly, and turns smartly on his heel, heading for the kitchen. Spender rushes after him. “It’s through here?”

“Yes, Sir,” says Mulder, running to keep up, glad to see the other two soldiers seem to be staying downstairs to watch the door. “But if you just wait a moment….” Skinner has reached the stairs and is going up, Spender close on his heels, Mulder following, purposefully falling slightly behind. They reach the top of the stairs, and Skinner looks around the parlor, towards the hall that leads to the bedroom.

“Down that way?” Skinner asks, pointing down the hall.

“Yes, but Sir, I really think that-” Skinner strides down the hallway and throws open the door. Scully lets out a startled cry (faked, of course- she has to have heard Skinner’s heavy tread), and over Skinner’s and Spender’s shoulders, Mulder sees her sitting up, holding the duvet up against her bare shoulders. And for a split second, her put-on look of surprise falters, and she looks… is she biting back a laugh? But the look is gone before Mulder can even be sure it was there.

“Fraulein Scully,” says Skinner, his voice gruff, “please put on your clothes and join us in the parlor. We have some questions for you.” He lets the door swing shut and turns. With his back to Spender, he catches Mulder’s eye… and in spite of the gravity of the situation, Mulder has to fight to keep from laughing at the deep blush spread over his captain’s cheeks.

They question Scully for close to an hour, but she performs admirably. Her feigned shock at her mother’s supposed “betrayal” is more than believable. Skinner is directing the interrogation (in German, with Mulder translating, to keep up the ruse in front of Spender), so it’s already gentler than it would have been if Spender were the one in charge, but even so, it’s clear Spender didn’t really expect Scully to be involved at all. Those involved in the Resistance often kept it a secret from their families, to protect them, so the idea of Maggie keeping her activities a secret from her daughter is perfectly credible. Skinner makes no move to search the apartment, and Spender doesn’t think to suggest it. At the end of the hour, the two men stand to leave.

“We have no further questions at this time, Fraulein Scully,” says Skinner. “But we do ask, should your mother contact you, that you inform us immediately. For you to attempt to keep her whereabouts from us would be unwise.” He looks to Mulder, who translates, and Scully nods. Skinner turns to Mulder. “Obersoldat Mulder, you’ll see us out,” he says. “Then you’ll get yourself cleaned up and get back to camp. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” says Mulder. Skinner and Spender nod to Scully, then go back downstairs, Mulder behind them.

When he returns upstairs after locking up behind the soldiers, Scully is no longer in the parlor. Mulder finds her back in her bedroom, huddled on her bed. He curls close around her.

“You should get dressed and go back,” she says, her voice dull. “They’ll be looking for you.”

“Not tonight, they won’t,” says Mulder. “Not in all the excitement. And I’m sure I can get Skinner to claim to have seen me in camp, if need be.” He strokes her hair and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Speaking of Skinner, why were you trying not to laugh when he opened your bedroom door?” Scully smiles weakly through her tears.

“Because he had his eyes closed,” she says. “He was standing there, in my doorway, belting out orders at me with his eyes shut tight and his cheeks bright red.” Mulder chuckles and shakes his head.

“Protecting your modesty. A real gentleman,” he says. Scully starts to laugh… but halfway through, she dissolves into tears instead. Mulder holds her close, murmuring comfort into her ear and stroking her hair, squeezing her tightly in his arms as she sobs, until at last, exhausted, she sleeps.


	8. Chapter 8

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE  
MARCH 1944

In the bleak, cold, and wet month after her mother’s departure, Scully is an almost entirely different person.

She remains just as stoic as ever: barring that first night spent sobbing in Mulder’s arms, she has not broken down again. The morning after, Scully hangs a sign on the cafe door informing patrons that the restaurant is closed for the day, and Mulder escorts her out to the farm to help the farm hands milk the cows, and to arrange with them to see that the animals are fed, watered and cared for in her mother’s absence. Mulder helps her straighten the inside of the farmhouse, where Oberst Spender’s men have conducted a very thorough- but ultimately fruitless- search for anything that might indicate who in the Resistance has been escorting refugees to and from Maggie Scully’s home. Together, Mulder and Scully clean up broken dishes, re-fold piles of linens and clothing, and return scattered letters and invoices to the writing desk. Scully does not speak the entire time, except to tell him where things go. They walk back to the cafe in silence, and when Mulder offers to come inside, she tells him she needs some time alone. She’s gentle about it, but that doesn’t stop Mulder from feeling completely dejected as he walks back to camp.

Scully is just as diligent in her efforts for the Resistance as she was before; that much has not changed at all. If anything, she has ramped up her activity considerably. She continues to send Mulder to the pharmacy at regular intervals, she goes to “confession” frequently to speak with the priest that Mulder now knows is one of her contacts, and she takes so many orders for pies that she has to teach Mulder how to roll out dough so that he can help her finish them in time to conceal messages. During the month of March, she stitches up three injured Allied pilots, sets two broken arms and four broken fingers, and administers many doses of antibiotics. When Mulder expresses concern that she’s risking too much by sheltering so many people in such a short time, she shrugs him off.

“What did I stay behind for, if not to help people?” is all she says. He does his best not to show how deeply this cuts him, because he knows that to think she would stay behind for him, a man she’s known only a few months, a soldier in an invading force, is ridiculous… but as usual, she knows exactly what he’s thinking, and her face softens. She cups his cheek gently. “I don’t need to stay for you,” she says, “because you would have come with me if I had left.” It’s a bold assertion. And it’s absolutely true.

“Yeah, I would have,” Mulder agrees. For a moment, she smiles- one of the very few smiles he’s seen since her mother left- and kisses him tenderly. But moments later, the mask has fallen back into place, and she’s stoic and unreadable once again.

He wants so badly to comfort her, but she won’t let him in. She walls her pain off, holds it tightly under control, does not give in to it. And while she doesn’t smile or laugh much, not like she used to, she doesn’t cry, either.

Mulder hasn’t known Scully long, and he has never seen her through a difficult time, so he doesn’t know yet how she copes. It takes him awhile to realize the exact nature of what is going on with her.

She is in mourning.

There’s no reason to believe Maggie is anything other than safely on her way to Allied or neutral territory. Mulder is certain that had she been captured or killed, he would have heard about it from Jeffrey Spender, but there’s been no word at all. It’s enough for Mulder to believe she’s safe, but Scully is different. Scully requires absolute proof, and until she has it, she will continue to believe that her mother is lost to her forever. She will not listen to Mulder’s reassurances that Maggie is fine, but neither will she talk to him about her grief, nor allow him to share the burden with her. He does not know how to help her, doesn’t know what she needs, and he watches helplessly as she becomes more and more drawn and worried as March progresses.

Scully is becoming increasingly tired, as well, he notices. She doesn’t move between tables with her usual speed, and she does not fight Mulder nearly as much when he tries to help her out around the cafe. There are several evenings when she sends him home as soon as she locks up for the night, stating firmly that she’s exhausted and she needs to go straight to bed. Mulder does not push her- she’s doing too much, he knows, trying to keep busy enough to drown out the heartache of losing her mother, and the strain is beginning to show. He has to trust that she’ll come to him when she is ready.

The one thing comforting Mulder is that his attempt to make it appear as though he and Scully were in her apartment together the night Maggie disappeared seems to have been a complete success. In the weeks following, Mulder holds his breath, but no move is made to question her further, and once she’s opened the cafe back up after that first day, it’s just as full of German soldiers as ever. Mulder continues to sit at his favorite table every evening that he can, and while the soldiers definitely whisper more when Scully walks by, but none of them seem overtly suspicious.

————

The last Saturday in March, Mulder is in the kitchen, finishing up dishes while Scully locks up the cafe. She’s been ill off and on for the past few days, tired and nauseous by turns, and he worries that, on top of everything else, she’s caught influenza or something like it. She refuses to slow down, insisting she probably just ate something spoiled, even though she’s eating the same food as her patrons and none of them seem to be sick because of it. He’s expecting to be sent back to camp as soon as the cafe is closed up for the night, but he’s hoping against hope she’ll invite him to stay, just for a little while. Not to make love- they haven’t done that since the night before Maggie left- but just to be with her, to spend time in her presence without being surrounded by cafe patrons or dirty dishes. He doesn’t care if they even talk. He just wants to sit with her, to put his arms around her for a little while and forget the world outside.

The world outside, however, seems just as determined to intrude as ever, because no sooner has Scully come back to the kitchen and hung up her apron than there’s a pounding on the back door. Scully pulls back the curtain over the door just enough to see who’s there, and then jumps back and throws the door open hurriedly, moving faster than Mulder’s seen her move in a month.

Byers is on the back stoop, alone. Scully pulls him inside, slamming and locking the door behind him.

“Is she all right?” she demands, without preamble. “Is she safe?” Byers smiles, and Mulder’s stomach unclenches.

“She’s in Switzerland,” says Byers. Scully frowns.

“Switzerland?” she says. “I thought you were taking her to Spain!”

“We tried to,” he says, “but there were too many checkpoints. It got too risky. We had to backtrack and go east instead of south. We were able to get her on a boat across Lac Leman. She’s got her papers and enough money to get on a plane to England. She asked us to tell you that she’s going to contact your brother’s wife in America and make her way there as soon as she can… and that she loves you, and she’ll see you when all this is over.” Scully is staring at Byers, frozen, taking in his words. “I’m sorry it took so long for me to get back here to tell you, but we had to be careful and move slowly, and then we lost a lot of time when we had to turn around and change direction. But I promise you, your mother is safe, we stayed on the shoreline watching until the boat docked on the other side, and-” The rest of his words are lost as Scully dissolves into loud, unrestrained sobbing. Byers jumps back as though Scully is a bomb that might explode at any moment, and Mulder nearly laughs at the comical look of panic on his face as Scully rushes at him and embraces him.

“Thank you,” she manages to choke out through her tears, “thank you so much….” It’s about all she can get out without becoming incoherent. Byers pats her back awkwardly, looking to Mulder for rescue.

“It was nothing, Scully,” Byers says. “We were happy to do it. But listen, I can’t stay, Frohike and Langly are waiting for me north of town, we need to meet our contact, so….” Mulder takes pity on his friend and steps forward, gently disengaging her arms from around Byers and holding her close to himself instead.

“Go on,” he says, and Byers looks supremely relieved. “Thank you for coming to tell her- to tell us. It means a lot.” He hasn’t realized, until now, just how concerned he himself has been for Maggie’s safety; he has been too wrapped up in worrying about Scully to acknowledge it. Scully’s mother had taken him in and accepted him as family when she had had no reason to do so, and it’s a tremendous relief to know that she’ll be all right. He shuts and locks the back door after Byers, then turns back to Scully, putting his arms around her again. “Come on, Scully,” he says, guiding her gently towards the stairs. “Let’s get you up to bed, all right?” Scully nods through her tears, and allows him to lead her up to her apartment and into her bedroom. She sits on the edge of her bed, still crying, and Mulder sits next to her, holding her against his chest as she releases the tide of emotion she has kept in check for the past month. She sobs herself sick, literally, but when she returns from the washroom and accepts the glass of water Mulder offers her, she’s calmer, more composed, and for a moment Mulder expects her to push him away again, to tell him to go back to camp so that she can sleep… but instead, she smiles tremulously at him.

“Please stay with me,” she says softly, and he feels his heart soar. “I know I haven’t been very… very present, these last weeks. I’ve just been so scared. I’m sorry that-”

“Scully, you have nothing to apologize for,” says Mulder. “I understand. I just wish you would have leaned on me a little, let me be there for you, instead of holding me at arm’s length. I wanted to comfort you.” She gives a weak laugh.

“I’m not very good at leaning on people,” she says. “I don’t like needing help.”

“I’ve noticed,” he says. “And I know you don’t need my help, Scully. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to give it to you.” He kisses her, gently, tentatively, not wanting to push her when she’s this emotionally drained… but she responds with almost joyful enthusiasm, and it’s easy to tell she’s missed their intimacy just as much as he has. Their first time together in nearly a month is tender, sweet, full of soft caresses and murmured words of love, and after, as Mulder holds Scully in his arms as she sleeps, her resources completely drained, he allows himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, everything will somehow work out all right.

———-

Three days later, Scully corners Mulder in the kitchen as he’s working a ball of uncooperative dough into a decent crust for Scully’s latest batch of pies.

“I need to talk to you,” she says. “I know you’re supposed to meet Spender for cards tonight, but can you stick around after I lock up? Just for a bit?”

“Of course,” he says. “Is everything all right? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says shortly, in a voice that he knows brooks no challenge. She scrutinizes the dough he’s pressed into the pie plate. “You know that the holes are supposed to go on the upper crust and not the lower one, right?”

“I’m filling them in, don’t worry,” he says, and to prove his point, he takes a little ball of leftover dough and flattens it into one of the tears where the uneven crust had sagged and separated before he could lower it into the pan. “It’ll be covered with fruit anyway, right? No one’s going to see it.” Scully looks as though she wants to argue, but with a sigh and a shake of her head, she seems to decide it’s not worth it, and she heads back out of the kitchen as Mulder grins.

When everything is done for the evening and Scully’s apron is hanging on its peg buy the kitchen door, Mulder expects they’ll go upstairs, but instead, Scully comes over to the other side of the butcher block where he’s standing. She fidgets with her skirt, looking down nervously.

“What’s going on, Scully?” he asks. “Have you heard something from your mother?”

“No, it’s not that,” she says. She crosses her ams protectively in front of herself. “There’s no easy way to say this, Mulder.” Alarm bells begin to sound in Mulder’s head. Is she ending it? That can’t possibly be it; since the news about her mother, things have been almost back to normal between them, and she’s seemed, at times, to be almost happy. She looks up at him, meeting his eyes, and he realizes: she is terrified. In the continuing silence, he begins running through all of the worst-case scenarios in his head, all the things that could possibly make the strongest person he knows look this frightened… and as he runs over the events of the past weeks in his head, things begin to fall into place, and he suddenly knows exactly what it is she’s so afraid to tell him.

The fatigue. The strange illness, that has persisted even after she has learned that her mother is safe.

He does a quick mental count in his head, and yes, the timeline seems to add up.

“Scully,” he says, needing confirmation from her, “are you pregnant?” She holds his gaze for a moment longer; then, closing her eyes and lowering her head, she gives a short nod.

That single movement of her head sets off a barrage of emotions within him. His mind does not know which direction to turn to first; he is at once terrified and elated, and it’s difficult to say which is the stronger reaction. This is far from ideal, it’s true: their future is the very definition of uncertain, and Scully is taking so many risks already, and this can only serve to complicate things.

But on the other hand….

A child. Their child. Mulder has not allowed himself to dwell on the idea before now, not because he doesn’t want it- because he does, desperately- but because dreaming of it seems to be the very definition of madness, when he doesn’t even know if he and Scully will still be in the same country a year in the future. But now Scully is standing here, telling him that, madness or not, that dream is set to become a reality.

Mulder realizes that Scully is still waiting for his answer- that her terror is likely, in part, due to worrying about how he’s going to react- and he feels immediately guilty for making her wait out his silence in frightened anticipation. He crosses around the butcher block in three strides and gathers her into his arms, burying his face in her hair.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“As sure as I can be, at this stage,” she says. “I feel like such an idiot… I’m trained in medicine, I know the signs, and I missed every single one of them. I put everything down to stress, to worrying about my mother… but then none of the symptoms went away after Byers came to see us, and then… I knew.” She draws back and looks up at him, her eyes still nervous. “Are you angry, Mulder?” He frames her face with his hands and kisses her.

“Of course I’m not angry,” he says. “It’s maybe not the best time, I’ll grant you, but….” He looks her in her eyes. “Come on, Scully, you can’t tell me you haven’t at least thought about this, about what it would be like.”

“I have, Mulder, I have, it’s just….” She shakes her head. “Not like this. Not while everything is so uncertain, and certainly not before-” Her face flushes bright red. “My mother will be horrified if she finds out, Mulder. I don’t care how much she adores you, she’s a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic and this will break her heart.” Mulder nods, subdued by the idea of being at fault for Scully disappointing her mother. He pulls her close to him again, tucking her underneath his chin, his mind moving at a fast clip, running through all possible options.

Really, when it comes down to it, there’s only one.

“Scully,” he says, drawing back to look at her, “marry me.” Her eyes widen for a moment; then, shaking her head, she laughs. “Ouch,” he says. “Not quite the reaction I was hoping for.” She sobers up quickly, looking at him with her eyes full of love.

“Oh, Mulder,” she says, taking his hands in hers and squeezing them. “It’s not like I don’t appreciate the offer, believe me. But I don’t want you to marry me because you have to.”

“I know I don’t have to,” he says. “I want to.”

“But I don’t want this to be the reason,” she insists.

“Don’t think of it that way, Scully,” he says. “I’m not. It’s not a reason to marry you. It’s an excuse.” Her face softens as she looks at him, and for a moment, he thinks she’s about to say yes… but she’s Scully, she’s analytical, she reasons her way through every decision, and she’s not going to say yes to him just because she’s touched.

“How would we even do that, Mulder?” she asks. “Your government has forbidden it. It’s not like we can just march up to the town hall and demand to be married.”

“I’m not talking about a civil ceremony, Scully,” he says. “I’m talking about going to your church and having the priest marry us. He’ll keep it a secret. Nobody else has to know.”

“But it wouldn’t be legally valid,” she protests. “A civil ceremony is the only kind the state recognizes. The French government wouldn’t care that we were married in the eyes of the church.”

“But would your mother care?” he asks gently. He already knows the answer: no, Maggie Scully would not care at all. If the church said he and Scully were married, that would be good enough for her. “Just think about it, Scully,” he says. “We could even tell her we got married before you got pregnant, if you want. There’s no reason she has to know any different.” He hopes, just for a moment, that she’ll say yes, right then and there, but he knows her well enough to know that that’s not how she operates. He will need to be patient.

“I’ll think about it, Mulder,” she promises. “And one way or another… thank you.”

———

The cafe is extremely crowded the first Saturday in April. In addition to the usual contingent of German soldiers, Scully has offered to host a small luncheon for her neighbors, whose daughter was married this morning. Her neighbors own the butcher’s shop next door, and Scully has confessed to Mulder that in lieu of payment, the family is supplying her with several choice cuts of meat to be put in the week’s sandwiches. With the German army seizing more and more provisions ahead of the Allied invasion everyone assumes is imminent, meat is becoming increasingly expensive. The orchards in Maggie Scully’s farm will need pruning before the growing season begins, and Scully is conserving her own supplies and money as best she can in order to hire men to do it.

Mulder has managed, with Skinner’s help, to lay his hands on several bottles of very nice wine, and he has given them to Scully with instructions to serve them to the wedding party, saying that they’re a gift from her. Scully rewarded him with the most wonderful of kisses when he presented her with the bottles, and he’s very much looking forward to spending tonight with her after the cafe is closed. The wine has been very well-received, and the bride’s father, in particular, is growing louder and more exuberant as the bottles begin to empty. He continually breaks out into snatches of French folk songs, and both his wife and his daughter, radiant beside her new husband, keep trying to shush him, though they’re laughing. The rest of the patrons, even the German soldiers, don’t seem to mind. Joy is contagious, and the joy of having a daughter wed is a happiness that crosses cultural boundaries. At one point in the afternoon, Mulder even witnesses a German soldier, one he knows to be a very decent man, call Scully over and order a plate of pastries to be sent to the wedding party’s table, to be added to his own bill. Weddings, Mulder muses to himself, bring people together like nothing else can.

He has been waiting for Scully’s answer on that count for nearly a week now. He’s not pushing her, but he’s beginning to get a bit nervous. He thinks that tonight, perhaps, he’ll at least ask where she is on the matter… but later, after they’ve had some time to relax together. She needs it- she’s still exhausted, and the morning sickness is even more pronounced now. She’s estimated that she’s around two months along; the baby will arrive in the fall if she’s right.

The sound of the door opening interrupts Mulder’s thoughts, and his stomach sinks rapidly when he sees Jeffrey Spender, followed by two of his cohorts, enter the cafe. Spender doesn’t usually come here- not while Mulder’s here, at any rate- and Mulder just barely stops himself from groaning when Spender spies him and makes a beeline for his table. The three men sit down.

“Are you ever not here when you’re not on duty?” asks Spender. Mulder shrugs.

“It’s a nice place,” he says. “And the coffee is good.” Over Spender’s shoulder, he sees Scully eyeing the newcomers nervously. He waves her over. “Let me buy you all a cup.” Scully arrives table side. “Mademoiselle Scully,” he says, in French, “please let me introduce my childhood friend, Jeffrey Spender. We grew up in Berlin together.” Spender takes Scully’s hand and kisses it, his lips lingering a fraction of a second longer than was called for, and Mulder subdues a shudder of anger with difficulty.

“Such a pleasure to meet you, Fraulein Scully,” says Spender. Mulder knows full well that Spender speaks French, but of course he won’t debase himself by speaking anything other than his native tongue. “Fox talks about you so often. Might my friends and I sample the coffee he raves about so much?” Mulder dutifully translates all of this into French, and Scully nods.

“Put it on my tab,” says Mulder, and Spender and his friends don’t even bother to protest. Scully heads to the back, and Spender watches her go.

“She’s lovely, Fox,” he comments. “I’m sure you’ll be sad to see her go when we move on.” Mulder raises his eyebrows, feigning nonchalance, while inside, his gut clenches immediately.

“Are we?” he asks, as though he couldn’t care less. “Moving on, I mean. I hadn’t heard anything.”

“Nothing’s for sure yet,” says Spender. “But it’s only a matter of time, really. We’ve been here far too long already, and soon enough we’ll be needed further west.” Mulder nods, trying not to dwell on it too much. Scully returns with the coffee, and Spender takes a long drink as she leaves again. “That’s quite good,” he remarks with an approving nod. “She must have very good connections to be able to afford such high quality.” Mulder tries to work out whether Spender is insinuating anything by his use of the word “connections.”

“She trades for it,” he says. “Her cows produce enough milk and cream that she has extra.”

“Oh really? If she has that much extra, perhaps we ought to relieve her of it,” Spender comments. “I wouldn’t mind a little cream in my coffee in my tent in the mornings.” Mulder snorts.

“Jeffrey, do you see how many officers are taking their lunch in here?” he asks. “They all know how she gets her coffee; they know she has spare goods to trade. None of them have made a move to ‘relieve’ her of her extra milk, because they know if they do, this cafe will close down, and they won’t be able to sit in here and eat anymore. They won’t be able to enjoy her coffee, or her delicious pies. And believe me, Jeffrey,” he says, sitting back, “you haven’t lived until you’ve tried a slice of Dana Scully’s cherry pie.” It’s exactly the sort of comment Scully would want him to make, the sort that adds fuel to the rumors she’s asked him and Skinner to spread, but still, it turns his stomach to say it. Spender has no time to comment, however, because across the cafe, the bride’s father’s voice has raised in song yet again- and this time, it’s impossible to tune out.

_“Allons enfants de la Patrie,  
Le jour de gloire est arrivé!”_

The father of the bride is standing, his nearly-empty wineglass aloft, singing at the top of his lungs. But this is not an innocuous folk song, no lullaby sung to sleepy children. This is La Marseillaise, the French national anthem. This is a song of revolt, a song about standing up to tyranny, about gathering the people of the entire country to arms to overthrow an unwanted ruler.

This is a song that has not been heard in France for nearly four years.

_“Contre nous de la tyrannie,  
L'étendard sanglant est levé!”_

The bride and her mother are pulling on the man’s arms, desperately trying to get him to sit down and stop singing, but he responds by climbing up to stand on his chair and singing louder. Scully, standing behind the register, looks terrified. Mulder sees frightened tears on the bride’s lovely young face, and he is on his feet before he can think about it another moment.

“Mademoiselle, please, let him sing,” Mulder calls across the cafe. “Patriotism, love for one’s country, is a beautiful thing to see. And besides,” he grins widely, “your father has a beautiful voice.” The man on the chair answers Mulder’s grin, raising his glass to him, and he continues to belt out the song at top volume. His wife and daughter reluctantly sit back down, though they continue to look apprehensive.

_“Entendez-vous dans les campagnes  
Mugir ces féroces soldats?”_

The man really does have a lovely voice.

Spender is looking at Mulder with an expression of absolute disgust, and he makes as if to rise, but Mulder puts out a hand to stop him.

“Come on now, Jeffrey,” he says, “are you really so threatened by an old man singing a song?” Spender glares at him a moment longer… but in front of his friends, he can do nothing but back down. They sit in stony silence until the man finishes singing and sits down. There is no applause- the man is elderly and has clearly been drunk, but the other French patrons have no such excuse- but Mulder sees tears in more than one eye. Spender stands abruptly.

“I think I’ve had enough coffee for now,” he says. “I’ll see you back at camp.” Mulder waves him off, and Spender and his friends leave, throwing a glare in the direction of the wedding party. There’s a chance he’ll be colder now, less communicative, but Mulder could not have stood by and allowed a young woman to see her father arrested on her wedding day.

Looking around, Mulder realizes that Scully is nowhere to be seen. She disappeared into the kitchen sometime during the man’s singing, and she has not reappeared. Draining his cup of coffee in one long gulp, Mulder takes the empty mug and heads to the back.

Scully is standing at the butcher block, facing away from him, her head down. She turns when she hears Mulder enter, and he sees that she is crying, tears running fast and thick down her lovely face.

“Scully, what is it?” he asks. “Are you all right?” Nodding, she crosses to him, putting her arms around his waist and resting her face against his chest. She looks up at him.

“Yes,” she says softly, with a shaking smile. Mulder’s heart stops. Is she saying what he thinks- hopes- she’s saying?

“Yes?” Her smile widens.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”


	9. Chapter 9

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE  
LATE MAY, 1944

Under any other circumstances, Mulder would have found that spring, the months after his and Scully’s secret marriage, to be a time of unabated bliss. The weather is fine, the countryside around him is beautiful, and he spends nearly every evening alone with a woman so perfect, Pygmalion himself could not have dreamed her into existence. With the first difficult months of her pregnancy behind her, Scully is entirely suffused in a healthy glow, her hair shining and her pale skin luminous. Her belly remains relatively flat, even as she is about to begin the fifth month, with what little roundness there is hidden easily by her voluminous work skirt and apron. It’s a relief to both of them, as it has bought them some time to prepare for their next step. Scully has begun selling more of her extra butter and cream, rather than trading for goods, and has been slowly decreasing the size of her menu. She claims to her patrons that the food shortages are beginning to affect her at last, but in truth, she is hiding the money away. A bag sits packed in her bedroom wardrobe, ready to go at a moment’s notice.

Before Scully’s pregnancy has the chance to begin to show, she and Mulder are leaving.

Mulder has had Frohike pay a contact to forge French identification papers for him. With his perfect, unaccented French, he can easily pass for a native-born Frenchman. He has also paid for a new set of papers for Scully, under a different name, in case an arrest warrant is put out for her once she disappears. They have set a definite departure date- June fifteenth- but both are ready to leave immediately should the need arise.

They do not discuss their plans often, however, because Scully is completely destroyed by the idea of leaving her beloved cafe, not to mention her mother’s farm, to be taken over by the Nazis. She and Mulder are both well aware that once they disappear, Oberst Spender will first ransack her home in search of evidence, and then, most likely, divide up the spoils amongst his men. She has packed what few priceless possessions can be carried easily- her parents’ wedding photograph, pictures of herself and her siblings growing up, her father’s love letters to her mother, her brothers’ letters from sea- but still, many family heirlooms will be left behind. And no family heirloom is more precious to her than the Cafe Pequod.

Mulder wishes badly that they could chance telling someone in the village of their departure, some trusted friend who will take over the running of both the farm and the cafe, but he and Scully have agreed that it would be too risky. The only people who know all of their their plans- including their marriage and Scully’s pregnancy- are Frohike, Langly, and Byers, who will meet them at a prearranged place on the night of June fifteenth. They are in daily contact now, with the time of departure so close, so that if Mulder and Scully need to change their plans, to move the date, their friends will be prepared.

Hauptmann Skinner is aware that Mulder and Scully will be leaving soon, but that’s the extent of his knowledge. Mulder had debated telling him more, but Skinner himself had demurred, insisting that the less he knows, the better. Even without knowing about Scully’s impending motherhood, Skinner has no trouble understanding why Mulder feels he must leave, and leave soon. The atmosphere around them- the sense of waiting, of foreboding, of flat-out dread- speaks for itself. There is only one topic of conversation in the camp these days.

Invasion.

They know it’s coming. It is inevitable that, at some point, Allied forces will cross the English Channel and attack the German-held beaches of France. Mulder knows, from the rumors that abound- which Skinner has confirmed- that intelligence believes it will be very, very soon. And when it happens, their regiment will cease to be part of an occupying force and will instead become part of a defending army. The regiment will likely be sent west, to the new front, into what is sure to be a long and bloody battle. There is every possibility Mulder will not return. It’s a possibility that would have been horrific enough to Scully a few months ago, but now, it’s a chance they cannot afford to take. Mulder is adamant: he will be with Scully to see their child into the world.

With the Allied invasion so clearly on the horizon, activity within the Resistance has ramped up considerably. Scully is no longer seeing as many Allied pilots- they’re being dropped well north of Oradour-Sur-Glane, in anticipation of the beaches being attacked, and the Resistance is trying to keep them in the area so they’ll meet up with the invading forces- but with the German army’s attention focused so intently on the west, more and more refugees are taking advantage of the smaller numbers of troops in the south and east, and are making their way to Spain and Switzerland. The non-military refugees, as a rule, are not often injured and as such do not typically pass through Scully’s apartment, but her help is still necessary to organize their transport. She is in church often, passing messages to the priest, and when she is not there, she’s out at her mother’s farm, talking to the farm hands, or in her kitchen, baking endless pies. Mulder worries that she’s overexerting herself, but he knows well enough how she’ll react if he suggests that she slow down. He consoles himself with the knowledge that, in barely two weeks, they will be on their way to a place where all of this will no longer be Scully’s responsibility.

The plan, at this point, is to move in the opposite direction of the fleeing refugees Scully is helping to hide, and to make their way north and west, towards the new front that will be opened any day now. They will slip behind the advancing Allied troops and travel to Calais, then try to find transportation across the channel to England, where they will meet up with Maggie Scully, if she is still there. If they are caught by Allied soldiers, they will identify themselves as Resistance, which should guarantee their safe passage. If they are caught by Germans, they will show their forged identification papers and claim to be a married couple on their way to fetch Mulder’s elderly mother and escort her east, away from the coming conflict. It’s not a foolproof plan, but it’s the best they’ve been able to come up with.

——–

On the evening of June third, as the cafe is emptying out for the night, a dark-haired man in civilian clothing strides through the door and approaches Scully at the register. He’s not someone Mulder has seen before, which is unusual in a town this small. By the look on Scully’s face, she doesn’t know him, either.

“I want to place an order for a pie,” he says brusquely, and Scully nods, reaching for her ever-present notepad.

“What kind would you like?” she asks politely. If she’s thrown off by the man’s manner, she doesn’t show it.

“Cherry,” he says. “To feed three people.” Scully writes this down.

“And when do you need it by?” she asks.

“By the thirteenth of June,” says the man. Scully raises her eyebrows.

“That’s quite a distance in the future,” she remarks.

“Will that be a problem?” The man’s tone is surprisingly cold, and Mulder tenses, ready to intervene if necessary.

“No, of course not,” Scully replies. “Come back on the eleventh of June, and your order will be ready.” The man nods and turns to go without another word. As he passes, he turns his head slightly and glowers at Mulder before sweeping out and into the night.

The hairs along the back of Mulder’s neck are suddenly standing on end.

Frenchmen, certainly, have no cause to like Mulder, or any other German soldier. But most of them, particularly in this small town, are timid, unwilling to risk any sort of direct confrontation. And the glare this man has just thrown at Mulder clearly says that, had Mulder taken offense, the man would have been quite willing to fight back. Something about this does not feel right.

“Scully,” he says later, with the cafe door closed and locked against the outside world, “I think we should move up our departure date.” She looks up at him from where she’s slicing up meat for tomorrow’s sandwiches.

“Because of that man?” she asks. “The one who ordered the pie right before we closed?”

“There was something about him that spooked me,” he says. “Call it gut instinct, but I don’t think he’s what he seems.”

“He spooked you badly enough to want to leave early? Really?” She transfers the sliced meats to a large tray and carries them to the refrigerator, which Mulder opens for her. “It seems a little extreme to change everything on just a hunch.” She closes the refrigerator and turns, leaning against it and looking up at Mulder skeptically.

“Just… trust me on this, okay, Scully?” he asks. “Please?” He reaches out and takes her hand, drawing her closer, and rests his other hand on the tiny bulge that is their child. It’s barely noticeable under her skirt, but Mulder has spent hours running amazed hands over it while she’s naked, and he knows it’s there. “I just… I don’t want to take any chances if we don’t have to. There’s too much at stake.” She sighs and covers his hand with her own.

“I’ll get word to Frohike,” she says. “What should the new date be?”

“Let’s make it the tenth,” he suggests. “That way, we’ll be a good distance away before he comes back for his order… or for whatever else he’s after.”

Mulder very rarely stays the entire night with Scully- it’s dangerous to risk sleeping late and missing morning roll call- but tonight, he makes an exception. He doesn’t think the dark-haired man will return, but he’s not taking any chances, either. He sleeps poorly, waking at every tiny sound, and before the sun has risen, he is sitting on the edge of Scully’s bed, lacing up his boots. He bends to kiss her, and she stirs sleepily. He lowers the duvet and presses a gentle kiss to her stomach, as well.

“It’s not like she can feel that, you know,” murmurs Scully without opening her eyes. Mulder grins.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “I can feel it.” She gives him a sleepy smile and reaches up, pulling him down for a proper kiss. “And how do you know it’s a girl, anyway?”

“I don’t,” she says. “I just have a feeling, that’s all.”

“Isn’t there some way for you to tell?”

“There are a bunch of old wives’ tales,” she says, “but every last one of them is complete and utter nonsense.” She opens her eyes, finally, looking up at him. “You’re just going to have to be patient, I’m afraid.” He bends to kiss her one more time.

“I’ll be back this evening, all right?” he says. She nods and closes her eyes again, already drifting back to sleep. She will get up in another hour, he knows, and walk out to the farm to milk the cows, before going to the church to see the priest, who will get a message to Frohike. By the time he sees her this evening, with any luck, their date of departure will have officially changed to June tenth.

The encampment is still quiet when Mulder returns, shrouded in a pre-dawn fog. He has several hours before he’ll be required to muster for roll call, and he decides to try and get a little more sleep to make up for his restless night. Creeping into his tent, he finds both of his tent mates snoring loudly, and he climbs into his cot, hoping they’ll wake up, find him here, and assume he came in late. He dozes off at once.

When he wakes, hours later, the camp is full of noise and panicked energy. Mulder’s tent mates are long-gone, and he realizes he’s likely missed morning roll-call, though in this excitement, his absence may have gone unnoticed. He leaves his tent, deciding to find Hauptmann Skinner and make his excuses for oversleeping. The atmosphere in camp is positively frantic, and Mulder knows there is only one thing that can be causing it. Somewhere to the west, he is sure, the Allied invasion has begun.

Skinner is standing in front of his tent, looking for all the world as though he has been waiting for Mulder to show up. He says nothing, only beckons for Mulder to follow him into his tent. He lets the flap fall behind him as soon as they enter, and turns to face Mulder.

“Early this morning, in Normandy,” says Skinner, before Mulder can even ask the question. “No word on how it’s going yet, but….” He shrugs. “It’s only a matter of time, really. If it doesn’t work today, they’ll regroup and try again. They can’t win without opening up a western front and they know it.” Mulder asks the only question that truly concerns him at this point.

“Are we moving out?” he asks, his heart in his throat.

“Not yet,” says Skinner. “We’re to remain here and deal with the local Resistance as best we can. They’ve been playing havoc with the rail lines, and command doesn’t want the supply lines interrupted. The western coast is already heavily fortified, so unless the Allies progress much more quickly than expected, I estimate we have at least a month here before we’re ordered to move on.” He fixes Mulder with a pointed stare. “I’ll understand, of course, if you feel you need to change your own plans, if you need to leave earlier.” Mulder swallows.

“I think we’ll be safe with our current timetable,” says Mulder carefully. He knows Skinner doesn’t want an exact date.

“That’s good,” says Skinner. “I don’t want to know anything ahead of time… but tell me when the time comes, Mulder, and I’ll do what I can to see that you get away clean. I can do that much for you.”

“Thank you,” says Mulder, touched. Skinner doesn’t have to risk himself like this, but he’s a good, decent man. “Sir…” says Mulder hesitantly, “why don’t you come with us?” He feels certain that Scully will be all right with him extending this invitation without asking her first. Skinner has been a staunch ally to them, and it doesn’t seem right to leave him behind. His offer clearly takes his captain by surprise.

“I appreciate that, Mulder,” Skinner says, “but it would be wrong for me to leave now. Most of my men aren’t here by choice. I can’t abandon them to the likes of Spender. If we’re in battle, he won’t hesitate to sacrifice every last one of them no matter how impossible the situation… if I’m there, I may be able to surrender on their behalf and save their lives. I have to do what I can to protect them.” For a moment, Mulder feels ashamed, but Skinner seems to sense this. “I’m not judging you for leaving, Mulder. I know it’s what you have to do. You have other responsibilities now… I’m in a completely different position than you are. I don’t have children.” It takes a moment for his words to penetrate… but when they do, Mulder looks up in shock.

“Did Scully tell you?” he asks. He doesn’t believe that she would have, not without letting Mulder know first, but….

“No, she didn’t,” says Skinner. “But I started paying attention the moment she told me she was planning on leaving, because I couldn’t imagine anything else that would make her step back from the fight. And recently, she’s starting to show.” Mulder is suddenly terrified.

“Has anyone else noticed?” he asks. “Should we leave now?”

“Nobody else knows, Mulder,” says Skinner. “I’m confident of that. I’ve only noticed because I’ve been watching, because I’ve been expecting to see it. If anyone else had, I promise you, it would be all over the camp by now. I don’t think you need to take off immediately… but I would make it sooner, rather than later.”

——–

Saturday, the tenth of June, is the longest, most stressful day of Mulder’s entire life.

He wakes in the morning feeling as though he has not slept at all, which is closer to the truth than he’d like it to be on a day when he knows he’ll need every last bit of energy he can muster. He had stayed late at Scully’s the previous night, both of them assuaging their terror of what they are about to do in endless bouts of urgent lovemaking. Back in the camp, he had been too full of nervous energy to sleep properly, and now, with the day of departure finally upon him, his nerves are buzzing with fear and adrenaline. His duties are interminable, his meals are like sawdust in his mouth, and though he knows it’s wise to go into tonight with a full stomach, he has difficulty eating anything at all.

In the early evening, Mulder catches sight of Hauptmann Skinner from across the mess tent and gives him a pointed look. His captain nods shortly, and Mulder follows him back to his tent at a distance.

“It’s tonight,” he informs Skinner quietly. “I’m going to the cafe now, like normal, and staying after Scully locks up. We’ll meet our escort at midnight.” Mulder has not packed anything; all necessities are in the bag in Scully’s wardrobe, except for the forged identification papers, which are tucked into Mulder’s uniform jacket. Mulder leaving camp with his rucksack would be tantamount to announcing his plans to the entire regiment.

“All right,” says Skinner. He looks down, his hands in his pockets. “Do you… would you mind much if I came to the cafe with you, just for a bit?” he asks. “I’d very much like to have a cup of coffee with the two of you, after the cafe closes for the night. I don’t want to impose, but….” He leaves the rest unsaid. After tonight, it’s highly unlikely that Skinner will ever see Mulder or Scully again.

“We’d both like that very much,” says Mulder. “Is there anything you need to do, or are you ready to leave now?”

“I’m ready,” says Skinner. “Let’s go.”

The two men leave Skinner’s tent and make their way through camp. Mulder thinks, with no small amount of joy, that this will be the last time he winds through these tents, the last time he tries to ignore the glares of men that he knows hate him, the last time he avoids meeting up with Jeffrey Spender and his sidekicks.

And speaking of Spender….

As they pass the farmhouse where Oberst Spender makes his headquarters, Mulder spies the man himself standing out front with his son, several officers, and two men in civilian clothing, whose backs are to Mulder and Skinner. As they draw level with the farmhouse, one of the men turns his head so that Mulder can see his face. Mulder freezes in place. His blood runs cold.

“What is it?” whispers Skinner, stopping and leaning close to Mulder.

“That man, talking to Spender,” hisses Mulder. “He came into the cafe two weeks ago.” He looks at Skinner, suddenly terrified. “He ordered a pie. Something felt off about him… he’s the reason Scully and I changed our departure date, the reason we moved it up.” Skinner’s mouth narrows into a thin line.

“Mulder,” he says, his voice low and tight, “I think you should go get Scully and leave. Now.” He puts a hand on Mulder’s arm. “I’ll go with you to the cafe. Get her to go to the kitchen with you, leave from the back door, and hide out until it’s time to meet your escort.” He looks back up towards the farmhouse. “Something about this doesn’t feel right.” But at that moment, Oberst Spender catches sight of them. He strides over, flicking ash from his cigarette as he walks. Mulder turns his back to the farmhouse quickly, not wanting the dark-haired man to recognize him from the cafe.

“Hauptmann Skinner,” says Spender. “You will need to assemble your company and proceed immediately to the center of town. We’ve received a report that a captured German officer from another regiment is being held hostage by the Resistance somewhere in the village, and I intend to find him, release him, and deal with the perpetrators.” He casts a sidelong look at Mulder. “I have an excellent idea about where the officer is being held, and I’m sending my son and his men ahead of the main force to try and confirm my suspicions and bring him out before the traitors have a chance to move him.” Mulder cannot breathe. He knows for sure that Scully is not holding anyone captive in the cafe… but he is equally certain that the cafe is exactly where Jeffrey Spender will be heading.

“Sir,” he says, doing his best to keep his voice from shaking, “might I go with him?” Mulder is reasonably confident that, given the right circumstances, he could easily overpower the younger Spender and get Scully away. It’s not the clean escape they were hoping for, but right now, it’s looking like the best option. “I speak better French, and I believe I could be of assistance in questioning-”

“You will remain with your unit, Obersoldat Mueller,” says Spender shortly. “I do not foresee that there will be a need for much… questioning.” Mulder opens his mouth to argue, but Skinner takes his arm firmly and leads him away.

“You say anything, you’re just going to get yourself locked up,” hisses Skinner, as Mulder tries to fight him. “The best thing we can do is get into town. You may be able to steal her away in all the confusion.”

“But you heard him,” says Mulder. “They’re going to kill her.” Skinner shakes his head.

“He’s saying that to rile you up and you know it,” says Skinner. “They’re not going to find any German officer being held hostage in her apartment, are they?”

“No,” says Mulder.

“Which means they’ll know they’ve got it wrong… so they will need to question her. I don’t know where this imprisoned officer is being kept, or if he’s even real- for all we know, this could be a diversion set up by the Resistance so that they can hit us somewhere vital- but I do know that until he’s located, they will keep Scully alive.”

When Mulder’s company arrives in the town square, the scene that greets him fills him with dread. The square is full of frightened villagers, some in their nightclothes, many holding terrified, crying children, all clutching their identification papers. More are being rounded up- the entire town is being gathered together. Soldiers are blatantly looting every shop and home Mulder can see, smashing windows and throwing people’s goods and belongings out into the streets. His stomach clenches painfully: there will be no going back from this. What is going on right now has a definite feel of finality about it, of all the stops being pulled out.

If Oradour-Sur-Glane still stands by morning, it will be a miracle.

Skinner calls the company to a halt, but makes no move to join in the melee. Throwing caution to the wind, Mulder breaks rank and runs to his captain’s side. He can see by Skinner’s expression that he has reached the same conclusion as Mulder: the town is about to be destroyed.

“We have to get to her,” says Mulder. “She must be here somewhere.” Skinner nods. He turns back to his men, raising his voice in a commanding shout.

“You men are to remain here, in formation,” he orders firmly. “You will serve as backup should the companies already in action require it. Obsersoldat Mulder and myself will seek out the commanders and obtain further instruction.” Without waiting for a response, Skinner turns and strides away, Mulder hurrying to keep up.

“Will they listen?” he asks Skinner.

“I have no idea,” says Skinner. “I imagine the ones who want to join in, will… and the ones who don’t will use my ordering them to stay put as an excuse to stay out of it. It’s the best I can do right now.” They are nearing the edge of the square. “I don’t know if Spender and his goons will still be at the cafe, but I think we should start there,” he says. “Keep your eye out in case they’re already brought her out to the town square.” Mulder nods agreement… but ten feet into the crowd, it’s easier said than done. He and Skinner are quickly separated as the panicked townspeople press between them, and spotting one small woman amongst them seems nearly impossible. German officers are striding amongst them, checking identification papers. It takes far too long for Mulder to get to the other side of the square, and the high street on the other side is just as crowded and chaotic.

The lights at Cafe Pequod are all off, but the front door is standing open. Whether it’s from patrons being dragged out to the square, or from Spender rushing in in search of Scully, Mulder doesn’t know, but either way, he is terrified of what he’ll find inside. There’s no sign of Skinner yet, so he flies into the cafe without waiting, his pistol drawn and held ready.

The main room is completely empty- and completely demolished. The soldiers have already been through here, which means it’s unlikely Scully is inside, but still, he has to check. He harbors a faint, but persistent hope that the commotion outside began before Spender’s arrival, that perhaps Scully has had time to flee and is even now making her way to their meeting place. If her bag is gone from her wardrobe, he’ll know that’s what’s happened… but he doesn’t think it likely.

The kitchen is just as empty as the dining room, and Mulder only pauses long enough to be sure that she’s not hiding anywhere before barreling upstairs to her apartment. It is also empty, though it doesn’t appear to have been looted- yet. There is no sign of Scully anywhere… and his heart sinks when he throws open her wardrobe and sees her bag lying exactly where she had left it.

They have her.

Mulder grabs the bag, throwing it over his shoulder, and tears back downstairs. As he rounds the kitchen door and enters the dining room, he nearly smacks into Skinner, who is running towards the kitchen, in search of him.

“She’s not here,” pants Mulder, panic beginning to set in now.

“I know,” says Skinner. “I got one of the other captains to talk to me- he says they saw Jeffrey Spender heading back towards camp with her just as all of this was kicking off.” Mulder is aghast.

“Back at camp?” he moans. “I could have just hidden myself and stayed behind!”

“Well, we’ll need to get back there now,” says Skinner, “and we need to take the back route. We can’t go back the way we came.” Outside, there is a sudden cacophony of desperate screaming, coming from the square.

“What’s going on?” asks Mulder.

“They’re separating the men from the women and children,” says Skinner grimly. Mulder freezes in horror.

“Skinner….”

“I know, Mulder,” he growls. “But there is nothing we can do, do you hear me? Either you run out there, try to put a stop to things, and get shot, and Scully gets killed back up at camp, or we get her out of there and you flee and maybe someone will be left to tell the world what’s happened here tonight.” He grabs Mulder by the arm, rushing him out the back door. They pass very few soldiers on the side streets- most of them are in the square, almost the entire village having been emptied out by now, and those soldiers who are left are more intent on rounding up stragglers than on Skinner and Mulder. As they pass the street that leads to the church, the same place where Scully has passed on coded messages under the guise of attending mass and confession, the same place where, months before, he and Scully stood before the priest and promised to love only each other for the rest of their lives, Mulder sees a line of women and children being herded roughly through the church’s front doors. For a moment, he is unable to go on, and he actually takes a step towards the church before Skinner grabs his arm.

“Mulder, come on!” he insists. “There is nothing you can do, do you hear me? We need to go!” Still, Mulder does not move, and Skinner finally steps between him and the sight of the children being forced into the church. “Mulder, Scully needs you! Let’s go!” The sound of Scully’s name brings Mulder back to himself, and he turns and continues on, doing his best to block out the sound of the frightened sobbing behind him. As he passes, he catches sight of Oberst Spender, standing off to the side, calmly smoking a cigarette, watching the proceedings with an expression of supreme detachment.

Mulder has always suspected that his father’s friend was evil, but it is not until this moment that he realizes that he is beyond that. He is not even human.

The camp is empty when they arrive. Skinner wastes no time with checking tents; rather, he leads Mulder straight to the farmhouse headquarters. Glancing through a downstairs window into the sitting room, they can see Scully, her hands bound, kneeling near the center of the room. Jeffrey Spender stands before her, and behind her stand two of Spender’s men, their guns drawn, as well as the dark-haired man from the cafe.

“Can we shoot them through the window?” whispers Mulder. Skinner shakes his head.

“We can bring down two quickly enough, but not all four… and if we miss, we can’t stop them from shooting her from out here. We need to get inside.” Mulder follows Skinner around the side of the house to the kitchen door. It mercifully does not squeak as they ease it open. Both men drop low and creep through the empty kitchen, towards the hallway to the sitting room. Mulder can hear Spender’s smug voice as they draw nearer.

“Do you really expect us to believe you have no idea where the kidnapped officer is being held?” Spender is asking. “We know you’ve given aid to the Resistance. We know your mother has hidden criminals at her home. We’ve seen your ‘friend’ buying medicines and bringing them to you.”

“I’m a doctor,” Mulder hears Scully say, not a trace of fear in her voice. “I treat whomever is brought to me; I don’t care what side they’re on. That’s what all of the medicines are for.”

“You’re a cafe owner, not a doctor,” says Spender derisively.

“People can be more than one thing at once, you know,” says Scully. “I’m a doctor and a cafe owner. Just like you’re an idiot and an asshole.” There is a crack of a hand meeting flesh, and Mulder hears Scully cry out in pain. At this, he cannot wait any longer, and trusting that Skinner will follow him, Mulder charges down the hall and into the sitting room. He fires off two rounds quickly, killing two of Spender’s men. The third man, though, gets off a shot the instant before Skinner takes him down, and behind him, Mulder hears Skinner grunt in pain and surprise. He whirls to see his captain stumbling and falling, blood pouring from a wound on his leg. He lands on the floor behind a sofa, his gun slipping from his grasp and clattering across the floor, out of his reach.

Mulder’s momentary distraction is all the time Spender needs. In a flash, he is behind Scully, hauling her to her feet, and when Mulder turns back, Spender is behind her, his pistol held to her head. Mulder is no marksman: he cannot guarantee that if he fires, he will hit Spender and not Scully… and in any case, Spender will pull the trigger the moment Mulder does. He is stuck.

“You have a long habit of falling in with the wrong crowd, Fox,” sneers the younger man. “I keep hoping you’ll grow out of it, but I’m starting to think you’ll never learn.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Spender?” demands Mulder. If he can keep Spender talking, he can buy time to figure out a way out of this mess.

“I’m talking about your choice of company,” says Spender. “This lying French whore, for one. Your traitorous schoolmate from Berlin- what was his name? Rolf? That coward with his precious newspaper full of lies.” Spender’s lip curls. “And of course, your stupid sister.” Mulder’s blood boils. His hand begins to shake.

“Don’t you dare say a word about my sister, you pathetic little rat,” he growls. Spender laughs coldly.

“That’s rich, you calling me a rat,” he snarls. “You know, I hoped, for months, that you would wise up and turn your sister in before she got completely out of hand. That’s what I would have done… but then, I understood that loyalty to country is more important than loyalty to family.” He smirks. “So I turned her in for you.”

For a moment, the rush of rage in Mulder’s head is so great, he forgets where he is and what is going on. He forgets the conflict outside, the need to escape, even forgets that he is holding a gun. He has actually taken a step in Spender’s direction before Spender presses the gun harder into Scully’s temple. Her sharp intake of breath is all he needs to bring him back to himself again.

“Now, this is what we’re going to do,” says Spender. “You’re going to drop your weapon and kick it over here. I’m going to tie you up, and we’re going to wait here for my father to come back and deal with both of you. I imagine, if you beg nicely enough, he’ll kill her quickly and you won’t-”

_BAM._

The gunshot takes all three of them by surprise, but none so much as Spender. The bullet hits him directly in the forehead and he collapses in a heap, Scully falling to the floor near him. She rolls to the side and leaps to her feet, her balance hampered slightly by her bound hands. She and Mulder turn in the direction of the shot.

Hauptmann Skinner is barely visible lying on his side behind the sofa, with only the top half of his head and the arm holding the gun protruding into the room. While Mulder had distracted Spender, he had crept, slowly, to his fallen gun and, unnoticed by everyone else in the room, had taken aim and fired.

He is, thankfully, a much better shot than Mulder.

“Mulder, cut my hands loose,” says Scully, and Mulder hastens to obey. Scully runs to Skinner and rolls him on his back. She gently probes his thigh, locating the wound, reaching around the back. “It went through clean,” she says. “I need something to bind it to stop the bleeding.”

“Scully, there’s no time,” says Skinner. “You and Mulder need to leave now!”

“You have to come with us,” says Mulder. Skinner shakes his head.

“I’ll only slow you down,” Skinner says. “You’ll never get out of here in time if you’re carrying me.”

“But Sir….” Mulder swallows. “If you stay here, they’ll know you helped us escape. Your life will be forfeit.”

“I’ll tell them I chased you up here and you shot me,” says Skinner dismissively. “It’s not like any of these four are going to contradict me.”

“They may not believe you,” argues Mulder.

“Mulder, GO,” Skinner all but shouts. He is already removing his own belt, preparing to apply a tourniquet to his leg. “I’ll be fine, I promise!” Mulder stands, Scully rising with him. He wants to say something, to thank Skinner for all he has done, for his support and protection, and he opens his mouth to do so… but now Skinner really is shouting. “Oh, for God’s sweet sake! All the thanks in the world are going to be meaningless to me if you two don’t get your asses out of here right now!” At last, Mulder nods.

“Take care of yourself, Walther,” is all he can manage, and then he and Scully are gone into the night.

———-

They skirt the edge of the town, staying well out of sight… but it’s not far enough away that they cannot hear the screaming. Near the square, Mulder can see a great gout of flames that he knows must be the church. Sporadic machine gun fire echoes from the same direction. In the distance, on the horizon, another enormous fire is pluming up towards the night sky. Scully clutches at his arm with a distraught moan.

“That’s my mother’s farm,” she whispers, her voice broken. “Spender told me they were taking the men there, to the barns.” They don’t have much time, they need to keep moving, but Mulder cannot stop himself from putting his arms around Scully and holding her close. “The women and children were in the church, weren’t they?” she asks, her voice muffled against his chest. He nods, and she squeezes him. There’s no time to linger, though; at any moment, Oberst Spender could discover their escape. Mulder unshoulders the bag he took from Scully’s wardrobe, and from within it, retrieves a set of men’s clothing. He strips off his uniform pants and jacket and replaces them with the civilian clothing. Scully removes her blouse, stained with Jeffrey Spender’s blood, and slips into a fresh one. They hide their discarded clothing under a pile of leaves and continue on their way.

The journey to the meeting place does not take long, in reality, but to Mulder, it seems to take ages. They say nothing, partly out of fear of getting caught by a patrol- though really, they don’t expect anyone to be out here- and partly out of horror at the unspeakable smells and sounds that rend the night air. They meet no one until they arrive at their rendez-vous point, a mile north of town, but still well in sight of the fires. At the top of a small rise, under cover of a copse of trees, Frohike, Langly, and Byers are waiting for them. Frohike steps forward and embraces first Mulder, then Scully… but none of them speak. The grief and shock are too great. Together they turn and watch as the flames on the horizon expand, spreading away from the church, into the rest of the town.

Oradour-Sur-Glane is gone.

 

 

**EPILOGUE**

GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D. C.  
AUGUST 1946

The Cafe Pequod is almost always busy around lunchtime, and today is no exception. Mulder has had his hands full chopping meat and tomatoes for sandwiches, preparing coffee, and washing dishes. If things keep up the way they have been, there really will be no way they can get out of finally hiring a dishwasher. Luckily, with business being what it is, they can afford it.

The locals love the cafe’s authentic French charm, the rich coffee, the hearty sandwiches and, of course, the delicious pies. All of these things explain business being brisk during rest of the day, but Mulder strongly suspects that the markedly larger noontime crowd has more to do with the number of businessmen who drop by on their lunch break, hoping to get a glimpse of the lovely young proprietress.

Scully has done the best she can to make the little restaurant look as much like home as possible. Prior to opening their doors, she has spent months sifting through thrift shops and estate sales, snapping up any and all furniture, crockery, cutlery, and decor that reminded her of the place she was forced to abandon. Before finally settling down here, they had traveled so far and stayed in so many strange places that anything that smacked of home, of stability, was a balm to their souls… even something as small as a set of plates that reminded them of the first slice of pie Scully ever served him.

After weeks making their slow, laborious way to the coast and bartering passage across the Channel, Mulder and Scully were faced with the daunting task of locating Maggie Scully. Mother and daughter had arranged ahead of time, should they ever have to flee, to meet in London, but still, it took nearly a month of combing shelters and information centers before they were finally reunited. By then, Scully’s pregnancy was perfectly obvious… but in her overwhelming joy at being together again with her daughter, Maggie was all too happy to simply smile and nod at Scully’s story of their being married before the baby had been conceived.

Mulder is relatively certain Maggie didn’t believe a word of it.

After the war had ended and travel by sea was once again safe, they had booked passage to America, staying first with Scully’s brother Bill in Boston, then with her brother Charlie in Norfolk, before finally finding, falling in love with, and purchasing the shuttered restaurant in Georgetown. Unlike its French counterpart, this cafe has two floors above it with an apartment on each. Maggie Scully lives on the top floor… but most days, she’s kept plenty busy in the second floor apartment.

As Mulder clears stack of dirty dishes from an abandoned table and turns to carry them into the kitchen, he catches sight of a pair of bright blue eyes peering at him from behind the counter. He smiles in spite of himself, darts around the counter, and scoops the giggling little girl up into his arms.

“Did you sneak away from your grand-mere again?” he asks her, and she gives him a nod and a mischievous smile in response. Shaking his head, he carries the wiggling child into the kitchen, where Scully is assembling a tray of pastries to bring out to a customer. “We’ve had another jailbreak,” he says, and she looks up, sighing.

“Again, Claire?” Claire responds with another giggle. “Maman is going to have to put a leash on her before long,” Scully says, dusting her hands off on her apron. “You won’t have as much time to be chasing her back upstairs come September.” In just a few weeks, Scully will only be working in the cafe in the evenings and on Saturdays. During the day, her medical school classes will be keeping her plenty busy… and soon enough, she won’t be working in the cafe at all. Mulder and Maggie have promised to keep the cafe running once Scully is practicing medicine, which was the only way she would agree to resume her studies.

In the evening, when the last cup of coffee has been drunk and the last customer has left, Scully goes out front to roll up the awning and lock the door. Mulder takes one last stack of dirty dishes back to the sink, then returns to close the front drapes. As he approaches the window, he sees Scully outside, leaning against the doorframe, looking up at the cafe’s sign, visible to them now with the awning rolled back. Mulder steps out the door and stands with her, his arm around her shoulders. She leans into him and they both gaze up at the white wooden whale swinging above the front windows.

They had left a forwarding address every time they had moved on, but they had never really expected to receive any letters. Nearly everyone Scully had known perished that night in Oradour-Sur-Glane, and Mulder knows better than to expect to hear from his parents ever again. So when the large, flat package had shown up six months ago, it had taken them all by surprise. The postmark originated in France, and showed that it had arrived in London and had been forwarded to each of their subsequent addresses before arriving on their doorstep in Georgetown.

The contents of the package had been nothing short of a miracle, in more ways than one.

The sign was no longer white, the paint having bubbled and flaked off in the heat, but the wood itself was relatively undamaged. Mulder and Scully had sanded off the few burned patches, painted it white, and carefully stenciled on the sign’s original inscription. There had been no letter accompanying the sign, but they both know exactly who sent it.

Somehow, whether by convincing Spender that he had been shot by Mulder, or by escaping all together, Walther Skinner survived.

A wooden sign and a surviving spy are, in the face of so much loss, relatively small victories, but with the nightmares of June the tenth still haunting them, Mulder and Scully are grateful for any victories at all.

“Ready to go in?” Mulder asks Scully now, pulling her out of her reverie. She smiles up at him and nods, then stretches up to kiss him. Together, they switch off the front light, shut the curtained door, and lock it behind them.

Cafe Pequod is closed for the night.


End file.
